Charles Dance Saves Westeros
by High Plains Drifter
Summary: Will the actor prove an improvement over the original Tywin? Another not so self insert into Westeros; which ever needs saving, because readers will never find a more wretched world of scum and villainy than this.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

 _Props triggered the door to swing open enough to reveal to Charles a properly emotionally spent seeming Peter standing there; Makeup having rendered him properly dirty, sweaty, and a tad bloody. Charles allowed the pause from the reveal to linger a sufficient time, and then opened the dialog …_

 _CD "Tyrion, put down the crossbow. …"_

 _CD "Who released you? Your brother I suspect, he always had a soft spot for you. Come, we'll go and talk in my chambers. …"_

 _CD "Is this how you wanted to speak to me, hmmm? Shaming your father has always given you pleasure. Hasn't it?"_

 _PD "All of my life, you've wanted me dead."_

 _CD "Yes. And you've refused to die, I respect that. Even admire it. You fight for what's yours. I'd never let them execute you, is that what you fear. I'll never let Ilyn Payne take your head. You're a Lannister. … You're my son."_

 _PD "I loved her."_

 _CD "Who?"_

 _PD "Shae."_

 _CD "Oh Tyrion, … put down that crossbow."_

 _PD "I murdered her … with my own hands."_

 _CD "It doesn't matter."_

 _PD "Doesn't matter?"_

 _CD "She was a whore."_

 _PD "Say that word again."_

 _CD "And what? You'll kill your own father in the privy. No, … you're my son. Now enough of this nonsense."_

 _PD "I am your son and you sentenced me to die. … You knew I didn't poison Joffrey, but you sentenced me all the same. Why?"_

 _CD "Enough. We'll go back to my chambers and speak with some dignity."_

 _PD "I can't go back there. She's in there."_

 _CD "You're afraid of a dead whore?"_

 _Thwunk!_

" _Unh. Fisith," he grunted, pitching backward from the force of what would be the CGI bolt fired from the crossbow. "You shot me," he called out with proper bewilderment and then held his place, waiting for Effects to rush in to plug a realistic appearing dowel into the gap purposefully rent in his … his chest hurt. No, more than hurt. He found himself in actually agony._

 _Charles stared down and saw a wooden rod sticking out of his faux sleeping gown piece of wardrobe. Startled by its appearance, he grasped at it. A sticky wetness smeared red across the fingers that discovered the offending piece to be lodged firmly in his flesh. His eyes shot across the dimly lit fifteen feet to a wide-eyed, horrified looking Peter holding a now empty crossbow. "YOU SHOT ME!"_

* * *

He awoke to find himself not sprawled out and bloody on a fake privy in a darkly lit set, but sitting on what felt to his bare bum and smelled acutely to his nose as an actual jake. Thankfully, he found no evidence of an arrow sticking out of him. His chest did not ache either; though he noted that his bowels did.

What's more, he was no long wearing a gown. Pants were drooped about his ankles. And he wore some sort of close fitting gold jacket over a shirt of crimson if the color of the sleeves was any indication. He prodded his upper torso in reassurance that some sort of wound was not hidden upon his body. Temporarily satisfied, he at last allowed his gaze to wander about.

The actor found himself alone in a constricted room built of cobbled stone and mortar that sported a high placed, narrow slit through which a ray of sun shone and he could faintly hear the caw of birds. A single wood door offered the only means of entrance or egress aside from wherever the pee and shit disappeared to.

He arose and adjusted his clothes to make himself presentable as he could for Heaven or Hell or the worst jape ever pulled on him. He took a steadying breath and opened the door. Nothing, just a short hallway lit by a single low flickering torch led off to both the left and to the right; faintly revealing doors at either end.

His ears revealed no clues, so he chose to go left, where more light shone beneath the bottom of the door than did under the one in the other direction. Another brief pause for courage and that door too opened to him.

A bright, luxurious study or personal library presented itself to him. A lovely, intricately carved mahogany desk dominated the space; one large arched and padded chair behind and two smaller but still padded chairs in front. A few scrolls, a book, and an inkpot and feathered quill populated it.

Charles stepped through the looking glass, the door now revealed to be in the middle of a floor to ceiling sized bookshelf holding the likes of such notable editions as "Wonders Made by Man," "Battle and Sieges of the Century of Blood," and "The Nine Voyages." All of them rather roughly bound.

The opposite wall backed a frosted glass fronted serving cabinet through which he could just discern some number of cups and bottles. Whiskey, gin, brandy, wine, even beer would do in a pinch, he suspected; judging as imminent his need for some kind of nerve tonic.

To his right, a mostly tapestry draped wall held another door; which he ignored. For to his left, behind the imposing desk, several vaulted windows offered what he hoped was a view of wherever the devil he was.

The ground and the sea met several hundred feet, or more, beneath him. What he could see of the exterior of the structure holding him suggested not a building but a pillar of granite. He spied sails fluttering in the wind on the dark waters; mostly heading either towards or away from a picturesque, medieval seeming port not far away. "Dubrovnik," the actor murmured softly in wonder; though he knew it was not that Croatian city.

'Madness,' he thought to himself, striding over for that mandatory drink.

Then he pulled up short, certain he was insane. The face staring back at him in the frosted glass was not his own. There were some similarities – height, slender of body, broad of shoulders - which the actor immediately glossed over. Instinctively, he touched the ridiculous golden coloured muttonchops that were not his close cropped more reddish beard. Then a hand swept over his shaved pate; and, not his acceptable for sixty-seven somewhat thinning hair.

Charles stepped close, leaning in to peer intently into the reflection of his eyes: green, not blue. He pursed his lips in repressed anger. "I think, therefore I am," he declared, pulling himself erect.

Upon which a polite tapping reverberated from the door through which he had not yet passed. Then, "Tywin," an unfamiliar voice called out.

" _Tywin?_ " He glanced about the room again with a more discerning vision. How could he have missed it? Lion motifs lay everywhere: embroidered in the tapestries, carved in the desk, sewn into the padding of the chairs, sewn into his very clothes. The ring on his hand was a lion's head. The small rug he had strode across was a lion skin.

Charles sighed in resignation. What other choice had he? The proof was incontrovertible, unless he was unknowingly already dead or mad in Bedlam. He must play this part. He cleared his throat softly "Enter," commanded the Lord of Casterly Rock.

A middle-aged man, quite analogous to his new body, aside from being stockier and having hair remain on his head, came through the door.

"Kevan, where are my children?"

His "brother" looked thoughtful a moment, not revealing any surprise at the sudden question, "Most likely already at Winterfell … unless there's been trouble with the Wheelhouse. I pity Cersei and her decision to not have the children ride." Kevan then shrugged, as if to say, 'what else could one expect.'

Charles silently agreed, " _What else can one expect_."


	2. Chapter 1

**EDMURE POV**

Father cleared his throat and made a too visible effort in order to stand from his seat behind the high table in the Keep's main hall. The buzz from those dining to feast the expected unexpected guests dulled at the sight of the Lord of Riverrun. Hoster Tully looked worn and ill and old before his time; much in contrast to the vibrant figure who had sat between Edmure and his father through the evening, Tywin Lannister.

The Lion of Casterly Rock was a mere two or three years younger than his fellow Lord Paramount, but the differences could not be more extreme, Edmure had thought more than a dozen times as course after course of his castle's finest victuals and most expensive wines filled the table to groaning for the august personage. Both men had eaten and drunk sparingly – Hoster due to the disease slowly ravaging his innards and the Lannister by either the iron control that kept his middle-aged frame as lean as a young man's or from contempt that Riverrun's best did not equal Casterly Rock's. Whilst Edmure at least had to admit the conversation by the pair was quite polite and relatively free flowing, if in a generally boring "what is new in the Seven Kingdoms" sort of way.

Not that Lord Tywin had needed to verbally specify about what had brought him uninvited and, for all proper ceremonial purposes, unannounced to Riverrun. That reason was as plain as the young woman seated the other side of Edmure was exceptionally attractive; Lord Tywin's niece Myrielle. Edmure had found himself purposefully excluded from most of his father's conversations with the Lion and with Myrielle's father, Ser Stafford, who sat the other side of Hoster.

So Edmure had gritted his teeth and played the part he had years ago grown accustomed to from the visits of lords with eligible daughters; engaging with Myrielle and her brother, Ser Daven. He came across as simultaneously interested and coy to the siblings participating at the far, far too evident ploy. In the boredom of it all, he had drunk deep in doing so, but not too deep; these after all were treacherous Lannisters trying to beard him in his own home.

And now that his father's efforts at being the proper host had worn him to a nub, Edmure knew what was coming next. The burden of placating without snubbing Lord Tywin was about to pass to him.

Hoster cleared his throat again, this time louder, and began. "I fear, to pretend I am a Baratheon and not a Tully, that I am no longer a stag of the first order when it comes to feasting and carousing," he chortled amiably.

Rounds of good natured "Noes" filled the hall from the loyal Riverrun lordlings and knights enjoying the fruits of the Old Lion's audacious journey to the castle.

"So while it is time for this trout to swim upstream for a bit of rest."

More "Noes."

"I say, no, I command, that this humble feast continue in honor of the great man come among us, Lord Tywin Lannister."

The proclamation brought a cheer from the red cloaks strewn sporadically through the hall, while his family's banner men shouted Hoster's name to the rafters. Edmure kept his phiz steely at his father pissing down the Old Lion's back.

"Now I bid you all a fond good night," Hoster concluded.

Lord Tywin beat Edmure to his feet and in what seemed all one sweeping motion lifted up his goblet. "To Lord Hoster!"

The air in the expansive room positively thundered and echoed with the innumerable calls of "Lord Hosters;" Edmure's voice gladly among them.

His father made one last whisper to Ser Stafford and then to Lord Tywin, as the pages pulled his heavy seat back; and off he slowly hobbled to the rear stairs and his bed.

The Old Lion leaned over to Edmure, looming over him by several inches, and placed a heavy paw across his upper back and shoulders. "Make no mistake, your father, Lord Hoster, is as great a man and lord as any of us."

Suspicion shot through Edmure. When was Tywin Lannister ever reputed to be so magnanimous? "I thank you, Lord Tywin," he answered politely.

The Old Lion's shaved head and closely trimmed beard, his renowned whiskers now apparently tamed for some fashionable reason, nodded once in agreement. Then, baldly, "As Lord Hoster has declared the festivities must continue without him, I see no reason that they would be impeded by our absence, Lord Edmure."

He stiffened, smelling a trap; then damned himself for a fool, what with the trapping Lion's paw having felt him tense.

The arm was slowly removed. "Would you show me Riverrun?"

Edmure would just as soon run a sword through him. "Certainly, Lord Tywin. Though I fear the moon will not give much aid in lighting our tour."

The man smiled conspiratorially, "I care not who sees us talk, Lord Edmure, but more, what they might hear us speak of."

" _And I'd rather not speak to you at all_ ," he thought. From the moment word reached Riverrun of Tywin Lannister and a party of a hundred departing down the River Road from Golden Tooth into the Riverlands, his father's banner lords along the route had been directed to slow the wretched Old Lion as much as possible. To little avail. The intimidating Lord of Casterly Rock and father by deed to "The Rains of Castamere" was not one to be readily diverted or trifled with.

Edumure gestured for his guest to step away from the table first. Immediately others began to rise. The cold, gold shitter waived them back down as if this were his castle.

"Which way shall we egress?" came the insolent request.

"That way, Lord Tywin," he answered, pointing towards a side exit out of the hall into a part of the triangular shaped keep that would lead the quickest to the inner courtyard, if near the smell of the kitchens.

Four stout Tully men-at-arms promptly detached themselves from beneath the tapestries hanging off the hall's back wall and began following.

A quick shake of the shaved head warned off a pair of red cloaks who sought to emulate his guards.

" _He is either trusting or has balls, I'll give him …_ " Edmure thought, until he saw the edifice filling the whole space of the door he had intended to use.

"My Lord," rumbled the bowel upsetting voice of the Mountain.

"No need tonight, Gregor," came the smooth, placid, yet utterly commanding voice of the Old Lion. "We are among friends. Enjoy yourself … graciously."

Tywin Lannister passed by the ogre first and waited in the passageway the other side of the door so that he might walk side by side with Edmure, who refused to let himself hesitate in crossing past the Mountain.

A faint smile appeared through the close shaved, still predominantly golden beard. "My apologies, Clegane is a solution ever in search of a problem."

"And is House Tully such a problem, my lord?" he dared ask.

The smile widened and a light laugh issued out of the Old Lion's maw. "None what so ever. And I apologize if my presence here has given the impression. T'was never my intent."

Edmure wisely refused to believe him. The Mountain's presence was a clear "or else" statement by the Lannisters if ever there was one. Yet he would not be intimidated. Riverrun was his castle. Still, if that creature would attend the rest of the feast "graciously," then he, Edmure Tully, heir to Hoster, must play the gracious host. "And never taken so," he announced. "Here," he signaled and a page opened an exterior door.

Tywin Lannister paused just outside and took a deep breath of night air. "I smell water, but no salt. A pleasant change. Shall we peer through the gloom upon the murky Tumblestone or the dark Red Fork?" he asked casually, clearly intent on walking the curtain wall but too polite to say so.

"The Tumblestone, I think," he answered. "We might peer down also within the Water Gate." Edmure wanted some place soft to jump should Westerlands' assassins be lurking about or the lord try and force a betrothal on him. "And the waterwheel might catch a bit of the moon should it break through the clouds."

They resumed walking.

An occasional question about the castle's construct or history and his minimal response was the only sound aside from the crunching of their boots on the crushed gravel of the path they wandered to an inner tower offering stairs up.

Not finding death waiting for him at the top, Edmure took the lion by the fangs. "My apologies for my lord father's early departure this even, an illness came upon him this last fortnight and he has not fully recovered yet," he lied.

Those words brought Tywin Lannister to a halt. The taller man turned and peered down a moment at him in what appeared as the darkness allowed as contemplative seriousness. Edmure wished he could read through those gold flecked green eyes what the cold hearted bastard was thinking.

"Lord Edmure, you and I are part of a small band of brothers, Lords of, or heirs to, one of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. As such, though we may never be friends, a certain plain speaking should exist between us. House Tully has no reason to apologize to House Lannister," he stated with an odd mixture of arrogance and sincerity.

Then, worse, a paw was once again rested upon his shoulder. "I have lived a long life, Lord Edmure. And I know a dying man when I see one. Hoster Tully is a great man, but a dying one. You have my sympathy."

Shock rolled through him. And anger. And hate. That this … this … haughty … vile … thing would speak such painful truth to him. Edmure did not doubt that his face flushed as deep as the auburn hair crowning his head. With supreme effort he withheld the violent response he desired by only knocking that false hand of friendship from off his shoulder.

"No, I did not suppose you would take my words well. However, I need you to believe I speak plainly; for House Lannister owes Edmure Tully an apology. Bringing gentle Myrielle here is a sham for watching eyes. You would do me a great favor allowing me to remain here a fortnight. A Lannister pays his debts."

And with those words, the Old Lion bowed slightly and continued off down the wall into the night.

"My lord, shall we follow Lord Lannister?" the senior man-at-arms asked into the befuddled silence as the larger man became just a shadow at the edge of Edmure's vision.

"I … you …" He did not know what he should do. Confusion burned away at his ire and the odium he felt for the proud, manipulative, brutal lord whom he had never heard a single good word spoken of. Confusion … and … and … curiosity too. "Stay here," he commanded, and then gave chase to the Old Lion.

The bastard was leaning insolently backward against the parapet, a whimsical, too confident smile upon that stern face.

"Lord Tywin …"

"You could do much worse than Myrielle," he cut him off in an almost conversational tone. "Though cousin Stafford is, I regrettably rue, lacking the stuff of a superior goodfather."

"I thought betrothal talks were a sham," he rambled in confusion; suddenly worrying about how badly he was being played with the many possible misdirections offered up by the Lord of Casterly Rock.

"They are," he agreed. Then a light laugh. "However every one down there does not know that. My banner lords do not. House Tully's banner lords do not. They do not know that Sunspear nor Highgarden nor King's Landing. And they will wonder, perhaps showing their hand."

"So you expect a mummer's farce out of me," Edmure accused with some heat.

"Not a farce, but a proper show. The longer the better; and the deeper in debt House Lannister will be to you, Lord Edmure. Talk with fair Myrielle. Take her for rides, she is a most competent horsewoman. Let her play the harp for you. Yet show reluctance to; she is a dastardly Lannister after all. Let others see that mistrust slip through your veil. Hot words a time or two with your father on the topic of my sweet niece would not go amiss either."

The man was too amused with himself, and Edmure felt his anger growing again. "And how am I not to suspect this is not a ruse to capture if not my affection than my honor by hook or by crook."

A long sigh. "Because you are a fool for not already marrying, Lord Edmure," he exclaimed with contempt.

"How dare you …"

"I dare because I am as great a fool as you, Edmure Tully. Who is my legal heir? Name him!" the Old Lion roared.

"Your son Tyrion." Lysa's infrequent letters had provided more than enough salacious news on the lecherous, drunk Imp's antics around court. Not one to trust or rely upon; let alone command the respect of banner lords.

"A dwarf. He might as well be a bastard, that is the kindest thing a father might say for having a dwarf for a son, let alone his heir. And did "I" ever remarry and produce more heirs? No, fool I," he said with evident self-loathing.

Yet Tywin Lannister had brothers who had sons. And Prince Joffrey had a younger brother; though a House name of Baratheon.

"Who is your heir, should you suffer a fatal accident?"

Edmure did not like how _that_ sounded.

"Cousin Humfyrd," he said slowly.

"Your rustic third cousin with a holdfast no larger than a haystack and a brain no larger than a hayseed," he said knowingly. "Your sister Catelyn at least married a Stark; would the Riverlands suffer one of her younger tree worshipping sons as Lord Paramount?"

" _Worse_ ," thought Edmure glumly. Word of poor Bran's terrible fall had reached Riverrun, but apparently not Lord Tywin as he journeyed here. His nephew might never wake up; leaving just three name day old Rickon if Cat and Ned had no more children. "Enough, Lord Tywin," he choked out. "You have made your point," he bitterly acknowledged. Then, to lighten the mood, he japed, "If not Myrielle, then who do you suggest I wed?"

"Best someone from the Riverlands … so long as she is not a Frey …" the Old Lion added with a vicious smile.

Edmure laughed. That was something the two could agree on. Tullys despised the Freys. And the Lord of Casterly Rock's disdain for old Walder arranging the marriage of his second son to Tywin's sister was legendary.

"… there is one I have my eye on for Tyrion, if he is to be rehabilitated. I'd be most wroth if you stole the sweet chit's heart away from the smaller of my two sons," he said wryly.

Edmure laughed all the harder at the jape; then seeing the seriousness of the Lannister's mien, green eyes in the dark intently watching him, the humor died in his throat, replaced again by confusion.

"And is that, my lord, truly why you came to the Riverlands? Your son was with the King's party and my House would gladly provide you escorts to the Twins."

"Thank you, no. Though if I may, perhaps a raven of yours to my sister Genna, so that she might judge the strength of the foundation such a match might expect in the Twins."

The continuing turns in conversation left Edmure completely bewildered and exhausted. "Very well, I agree to perform in your mummer's … show, Lord Tywin. I admit curiosity as to how a Lannister pays a debt for which I do not know the value."

The Old Lion chuckled. "Pardon me, Lord Edmure, but I never realized how menacing my house's unofficial words sound when one of us says them."

He could only blink in surprise at the Old Lion's odd taste in mirth; for some reason not taking it as a threat. "And?"

"Gold. Trade. A favor at court for House Tully that I might use my influence to achieve. Perhaps a betrothal to a friendly banner lord of yours to the fair Myrielle," he said with a grin, bringing her back into the conversation. "Her mother is a cousin of Lord Lefford. Take your time. Years if you wish. I will write the debt down on parchment and imprint my sigil on it before I leave."

"And where shall you go after you leave Riverrun, Lord Tywin." Edmure suspected that would offer a clue as to the game being played upon him, but he was unsure. He was finding that pulling truth out of the Old Lion was as difficult as panning for gold in the sandy silt of the Tumblestone.

"Play your part convincingly, Lord Edmure, and I shall gladly take you with me."

"Which would be ….?"

"Play your roll. The results will surprise you. My word as a Lannister."


	3. Chapter 2

**NED POV**

There could be no mistaking the noble visage atop the cloak of pure white at the front of the small column of horses approaching the King's party. Ned had not seen the man since the Greyjoy Rebellion, when Ser Barristan had fought stronger than any knight half his age. His carriage remained erect, the hand at the reins sure, and the eyes still ever vigilant. Unlike the friend who rode beside him, Ned judged that time had been kind to the knight who must now be three score and a few odd years old.

The hedge knights and younger sons of Southron lords who acted as outriders parted respectfully to the sides of the Kingsroad to allow the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard through.

And minutes later so too did the inner layer of guards that always hovered about Robert as he travelled, except when he went off on one of his frequent hunts.

"Ser Barristan." "Ser Barristan" Blount and Trant, the white cloaks on duty echoed each other in greeting their leader. Today, the Kingslayer was miles behind, accompanying the royal wheelhouse and his sister.

"Ser Boros. Ser Meryn." Ser Barristan acknowledged.

Robert's face cracked a wide grin. "Ser Barristan. How fair you, Ser? I've missed your knightly face and wisdom these last five months."

The Lord Commander smiled with some warmth in response as he pivoted his horse neatly so that it might walk alongside his King on the far side from Ned. "Your Grace, I am well. And more, glad to see you return in such noble company too. Lord Stark," he said with a half bow from his saddle.

"Ser Barristan, you are a long way from King's Landing. Is all well in the Realm?" Ned asked, a tad concerned, but succeeding in keeping his voice light and pleasant. There had been no ravens waiting them at any of the few holdfasts they had nighted at on the journey south, but those were sparse enough between Moat Cailin and the Trident.

"It is, my lord. The Small Council merely felt that his Grace and his newly chosen Hand," Ser Barristan smiled at Ned in particular at the mention of the new weight upon his shoulders, "deserved a fitting escort through the Crownlands."

"Ha!" Robert snorted in amusement. "Pardon my saying, Ser, but your escort," and a meaty hand reached out to wag at the score of minor knights that had accompanied the Lord Commander," does not appear all _that_ 'fitting' for a King," he laughed. "And I think Ned's goodfather, Lord Hoster, might vigorously dispute whether we are in the Crownlands."

Ned and Ser Barristan briefly shared in the King's amusement; for admittedly, his points were both spot on and happily struck Robert's lack of royal fancy. Some things about his friend had not changed for the worse.

"I fear, your Grace, that our presence in the Riverlands is thanks to Prince Renly."

"Ha!" The King snorted again at the mention of his brother.

In their near three months together again, Robert had been more complimentary about Renly than he had been about Stannis; but that was like calling snow cold. From what Ned could deduce from all the various stories he had heard of the Small Council, the Master of Laws contribution to the Council was in fact "small."

"First, Hayford was not far enough from the capital to qualify as a proper site to commence an escort. Then Sow's Horn was alas deemed too much a pig sty. And while the Prince found Rollingford more to his liking than Sow's Horn, the accommodations were still somewhat lacking for royalty; and with Antlers too far off the Kingsroad, he decided it best we proceed to greet you from the more agreeable Darry," The Lord Commander stated firmly; his tone betraying no sign of his opinion on the ridiculous matter.

"Which is still the other side of the Trident, of which I seem to have some memory of crossing a time or two, Ser Barristan," Ned said dryly.

"Bwahahaha, both with and without swords and warhammers, right Ned?" Robert roared in approval. The last two days, as the Ruby Ford drew neigh, Robert had retold his fight with the Dragon a half dozen times. " _And I'd give it all up to hold dear Lya just once more._ "

"Quite, your Grace," Ser Baristan answered primly. "Then we heard of other noble visitors ensconced at that large inn by the crossing of the Kingsroad and the High Road to the Vale, anticipating your arrival. And Lord Renly would not permit them the honor of greeting you first, so we joined them there. All then decided it most diplomatic if I alone escorted your Grace to where they await your pleasure."

"Bloody hells, who's there then, Ser; to have Renly's small clothes bunched in a knot?" the King commanded, now intrigued more than amused by the story.

"Lord Stark's goodbrother, Lord Edmure, and your goodfather, your Grace, Lord Lannister."

The hairs on the back of Ned's neck instantly sprung up as quickly as Lysa's warning of Jon's murder did in his mind.

* * *

The unexpected presence of the Lannister soon so provoked Robert's curiosity that he spurred his hunter from a walk to a trot. He did not wait for his Queen, nor her brother, so that she might greet her lord father together with the King. The only acknowledgement of his wife and goodbrother's interest was the command he gave his Lannister squire, Tyrek, to ride back to the wheelhouse to inform Cersei and Jaime of Lord Tywin's imminent closeness.

If the inn had been closer, Ned suspected Robert would have cantered, or even galloped, the whole way; and not just for the wine. Thankfully, it was not necessary for Ned to chase after and protect his friend. Keeping pace easily enough with the King and Lord Commander, who continued to drop interesting tidbits of the Lion's interactions with a Stag and a Trout, Ned was able to send a rider off to Vayon. His orders were for his Steward to ensure that both Sansa and Arya, and their direwolves, would be presentable for meeting a Baratheon Prince, the Warden of the West, and the next Lord Paramount of the Riverlands – even though he be their uncle.

Though he smelled a trap, Ned knew Tywin Lannister not to be so mad as to make so open a play against his friend and King. The more he listened to the Lord Commander's account of his past three days with the three great lords of the Realm the more reasonable and agreeable the Lion sounded. Having Ser Barristan take the trio to the Ruby Ford so that the knight could give his first hand description of the Dragon's defeat? Edmure paying attention to Lannister's niece. Prince Renly and Lannister amiably drinking together late into the night. Such words only served to stoke the Hand's fears further; the unseen blade was the deadliest.

Coming within sight of the inn, a field full of tents both large and small, and the royal welcome splayed out for the King; Robert forced his hunter to rear. And when finally released, the stallion leapt into a hard pounding gallop; his friend must have his show. The mounted red cloaks, Tully clad men-at-arms, knights, and lordlings who lined both sides of the Kingsroad and the beaten path that lead towards the inn broke into raucous cheers for him as passed through them.

The wall of men and mounts gave way to a large, open space in front of a low white stone wall that fronted their destination. At the back of the space respectfully stood a Lion, a Stag, and a Trout, as well as a few senior lords, and at least one lady; most of whom he could only discern their general identities from their House badges and surcoats: more Lannisters, Leffords, Vances, Rygers, Rootes, Darrys, Byrchs, and Hayfords.

Just like at his arrival to Winterfell, his fat friend vaulted out of his saddle to press his enthusiastic charge home. "What trouble are you getting into with your betters Renly?" The King demanded with a grin at his brother.

"Robert, welcome," the tall, black haired, younger doppelganger of Robert's said happily; moving forward to embrace the King while the two lords either side of him properly dropped in submission to a knee. Ned found the resemblance between the two brothers unsettling and weir; as if the younger one had stepped straight out that fateful campaign in the Riverlands as the elder. They unclasped after what would have been debilitating back poundings to lesser men.

"Why do I even bother sitting you on my Small Council, my return was just another excuse for you to dodge a little hard work," Robert chastised Renly with what Ned prayed wasn't unwitting irony.

"There are ever so frightful a number of scrolls that the other lords would have me read," Renly acknowledged with a mischievous smirk and an exaggerated sigh.

"Hahahaha. Enough, laze about," the King commanded and gave his brother a playful, powerful shove out of the way. "Lord Tywin. Lord Edmure," he then addressed the crouched lords with a happy sounding voice. Those two Ned well recognized, even if the Lion had shorn his whiskers close since last he lay eyes on the dishonorable, untrustworthy, grasping Lord of Casterly Rock.

"Your Grace."

"Your Grace."

"Rise up. Rise up, my lords. I chewed enough dust riding today. No need for you to share the discomfort of it." Ned's goodbrother and the Lannister promptly obeyed the royal command. "We are all friends and family here, aren't we?" Then, "Come down and join us, Ned. Ser Barristan."

Both Ned and the knight having at last reached where Robert had left his horse were in fact already in the process of dismounting, a squire each having rushed forward to take hold of reins.

"We've a tent, your Grace," the Lion's smooth, assured voice purred. "Stocked with reds, whites, ales, and even a bottle of Seven knows what from Essos. Mayhap a glass or two will remove some of the road's grit from your palate." A sheathed paw pointed the way towards the refreshment laden trap for the King.

"Haha, an excellent suggestion, Lord Tywin. Lead me on," Robert answered jovially. "And tell me true, t'was Ser Barristan's guess correct, have you been trying to buttock-broker sweet Myrielle on young Edmure here?"

Renly and, more importantly, Edmure openly chuckled at the accusation.

The Lannister met the pointed question with an open, charming smile. "I am. Though so far my subtle attempts had remained a secret, which, alas, my prey has now been appraised of thanks to your indiscretion, your Grace," he declared in a surprisingly light and airy voice that Robert seemed to take as a mild jape and smirked appropriately. Then, "Apologies for my deceit, Lord Edmure, but you are a slippery Trout."

That last comment set both Edmure and Renly into outright, genuine loud guffaws; as if it was some private joke between the three of them. This left Ned utterly confused. According to Robert both his brothers despised the Lannister presence in King's Landing like a dinner of cold mutton and warm water. And had Edmure learned nothing from Hoster about Lannister perfidy?

"Come, Robert, you are not the only thirsty one," his brother declared as his laughter died away. "We had to stand in the bloody sun an interminable time waiting for your ugly, slow carcass to arrive."

The King laughed at the insult. Then, finding himself neatly pincered between his brother and goodfather, Robert gladly followed their lead and began to walk off towards the promised libations inside a crimson and gold tent; chattering away like magpies with his escort, only occasionally slowing to acknowledge a face he recognized.

Ned tried as best he could to thread through the crowd of hanger-ons that quickly swelled up to follow behind the King. Standing beside the open flap that everyone was moving towards, he spied the unmistakable, threatening figure of the Mountain. " _No, t'would be madness,_ " he cautioned himself yet again. Then Ned suddenly realized something else quite odd about the whole situation; the Lion had made not one mention or inquiry about the whereabouts or health of his children or grandchildren.

"Ned!" the red haired lord who had hung back shouted; wrapping an arm around his forearm and pulling him into a quick embrace.

"Edmure. What is going on? Why are you here? And with Tywin Lannister?" he hissed in his goodbrother's ear.

He got an answering smile back as they released each other. "Seeing you. And the King. Talking with Tywin. Let them go ahead. Walk with me instead, goodbrother." Edmure said cheerily.

" _Tywin_?" The familiarity laden in the pronunciation of that name rang wrong and brought Ned up short. At Winterfell, he had thought the danger to Robert came only from bitter Cersei and honorless Jaime; and, perhaps, even somehow the clever dwarf Tyrion.

Yet, here in the middle of the Riverlands, with no warning, Tywin Lannister awaited the King. Ned immediately had to consider whether his goodbrother had been duped into being some sort of unwitting accomplice. And if the conspiracy his goodsister had warned Cat of might be vaster and more twisted than he had initially imagined. He forced a welcoming smile on his face and agreed with Catelyn's brother. "Sounds fine to me, Edmure. Do you have a place quieter than this in which we might speak?"

"Let's stroll a ways. My house guards are picketed around the other side of the Inn. Lord Tywin gave me the high ground and the breeze."

" _Gave you, Edmure? Gave you? Your House is Lord Paramount over the Riverlands_ ," Ned thought unhappily. Upon hearing from Ser Barristan of Edmure's presence, he had thought to privately share Lysa's secretly counsel with her brother. Now he was not so sure.

"My lord," a pretty, blond haired girl in Lannister colors curtseyed at Edmure. Then, "My lord," at Ned. This was quickly followed by dual "My lords" from two men, one younger – a brother? – and one older – a father? – who were escorting the young thing.

"Lady Myrielle. Ser Stafford. Ser Devan. May I introduce you to my goodbrother, Lord Stark."

The three bowed to him and Ned bobbed his head in acknowledgement of their recognition of his station.

"Are you not joining his Grace?" the little lioness asked sweetly.

"Shortly, my lady. I wish news from my goodbrother first, no insult to his Grace intended."

"Of course, my lords. Perhaps later?" the attractive lioness asked with a hint of eagerness.

"No doubt, my lady," Edmure agreed breezily.

"My lords," they all exchanged in parting.

"Edmure," Ned growled softly once more alone with him in the shifting crowd.

A hint of color came to his goodbrother's naturally rosy cheeks. "Oh, she's a sweet girl, no mistake. But don't worry about me, goodbrother. I've no intention of making a marital alliance with the Lannisters," Edmure said with less assurance than Ned would have preferred. Then, evidently trying to change the conversation, Edmure blurted out, "We were all sorry to hear about poor Bran."

" _We?_ " Ned wondered unkindly, making an effort to not visibly clench his teeth. "Horrible," he allowed himself to ground out. At night, alone, the image of his son's shrunken body laying more dead than alive in his bed with Cat ever at his side haunted him ... tortured him. "Your sister is beside herself. I hated to leave, but …"

"Yes. I can imagine; but since you'd agreed to become the King's Hand ... There was only so long you could wait." Edmure shrugged in understanding agreement, then said by rote, "Family, Duty, Honor."

"Yes." He had had to. This Robert would only wait so long on his grieving friend. And was Bran's fall truly an accident? If not for Lysa's message, he would have believed so. Now though, yet another tragic log fueling the fires of deceit and worse he must investigate in King's Landing. "The Realm waits for neither man, nor knight, nor lord," he said wearily.

"Has Cat sent any news?" his goodbrother asked delicately.

"None that I am aware of? You?"

"No," Edmure grunted. Then, sympathetically, "How have Sansa and Arya been with leaving their brother?"

Ned did not know how his goodbrother had gleaned that his daughters were coming to King's Landing with him. But that thought took barely a moment to pass through his mind; little that involved the King, or his Hand, stayed secret or unknown for long – even when it happened in the North. That, he guessed, would take some getting used to. "They have their direwolves." He wished he could have honestly said that they had each other, but they bickered so, more than he ever had with Brandon or Benjen or Lya.

A look of wonder passed over Edmure's face. "We heard ... the direwolves … but … well it was hard to believe. … Amazing. Amazing. I can't wait to see them … Tame, are they?" he asked with a hint of nervousness.

At this, Ned could chuckle easily. "Surprisingly so. Each of the children … well, Rickon not so much yet ... has done great work with their own beast. I'd imagine they'd let you pet them. However a smart man would think twice of crossing my daughters."

"And Queen Cersei's son, has Sansa's wolf taken to the lion yet?" his goodbrother said, the younger lord's words accompanied by a knowing smirk to turn Ned's Lannister concerns back at him.

Why would the betrothal of the heir to the Iron Throne be a secret? Everything was known, except why Jon died and Bran fell. "Joffrey _is_ a Baratheon. Only his mother _was_ a Lannister," he said with more emphasis than he believed; for the young prince clearly took more after her in all ways than he did after Robert. Nevertheless, he raised his eyebrows accusingly back at Edmure.

"I'm sorry, Ned. Couldn't help myself." Then a laugh. "Would you believe that the first night at Riverrun, Lord Tywin privately told me that Myrielle was only the distraction meant for spying eyes to hide why he truly came?"

Ned's heart beat faster at this revelation that Lannister plans were in action. "Did he tell you what his true reason for coming to the Riverlands was?" He suspected he knew at least part of the reason.

"Not as such. For the first week I suspected he was simply giving me a clever lie so that Myri's charms would on my unsuspecting. But I think its pretty clear why now, don't you? The King and his children are here; or will be here soon. And he had little good to say of King's Landing and the Red Keep during his stay. Too many " _watching eyes_ " he frequently complained." A shrug to suggest all that was plainly obvious.

Ned was pleased to hear Edmure wasn't completely fooled by the Lannister. "No hint of the need for the secrecy of it?"

"I've wondered of course. My best guess is because Lord Tywin made a mention or two of finding Tyrion a wife." A bitter laugh. "Even suggested the damned Freys, if you can believe it. Asked the use of raven so he could send a message to his sister Genna. Not sure who I pity more, her or the Freys."

Ned wanted to burst " _What is it then?_ " but refrained, revealing nothing on his face.

"Anyways," Edmure continued when Ned refused to share his humor. "my guess is that he has made a decision on who he intends to inherit Casterly Rock."

That was an interesting supposition. "Tyrion did not come with the King or his siblings. He went to visit the Wall."

"Ha. Tywin Lannister can't control everything after all."

Mayhap Edmure was not so chummy with the Lion as he initially feared. "You did not care for giving him guest rights?" he queried cautiously.

"Descending out of Golden Tooth, the arrogant Lion refused to take the hint he wasn't wanted. Not that any of our banner lords would dare tell _him_ "no" to his face. But he wasn't as bad a guest as I feared. He handed out advice like the arrogant arse everyone knows he is. Still, he spoke most graciously of Tully hospitality. Mostly he lazed about. He read all the scrolls and books in Maester Vyman's library. We took him hunting. Boating on both the Tumblestone and the Red Fork. He went fishing … by himself, on just a little raft tied up to the bars of the Water Gate. He even stripped naked and went swimming for Seven's sake." Edmure's head and voice shook with confusion at a picture that did not match Westeros' view of the proud Lion.

The two goodbrothers having walked around half the inn as they spoke, had finally arrived at a red and blue colored tent with giant silver trouts embroidered across it.

"And what did Hoster make of all this?"

Edmure frowned. "Father … father is not well."

* * *

Ned put down one scroll and picked up the next one to read in the dim candle light illuminating his tent. Renly had brought some correspondence from the Small Council for Robert. Naturally, that had been passed along to the new Hand. He had not had a chance to examine them until after drinks with Tywin and dinner with Cersei ended and the King retired.

The Queen's arrival had ended the festive party going on beneath the Lannister pavilion. And soon after Lord Twyin had bowed to kiss his daughter's ring and greet his grandchildren, dinner had been announced. Robert had sat at one end of the long table with Renly, Edmure, and Ned. Lannisters had swarmed the rest of the table; all looking stiff and uncomfortable as the Lion dominated the proceedings. Jaime in particularly being snubbed by his father. As Ned well knew, some family wounds never healed.

"My lord," a voice called out in the darkness beyond the cloth wall of his flimsy shelter.

"Yes, Qyint?" he replied to the guard.

"Lord Lannister wishes to speak with you."

" _Damn and blast the man!_ " Ned swore hotly inside his head. "A moment," he allowed himself to answer, putting away the scrolls and tidying a thing or two else that he did not wish the Lannister to catch eye of. "Enter," he commanded.

The taller, older, shave headed lord came through the flap. He wore a simple leather jerkin over a golden dyed wool doublet. The strap of a short furred sack was looped over one shoulder. A sheathed, grip worn dirk was mounted to a belt lightly studded with garnets about the waist. And the bottom legs of dark crimson colored rough-spun breeches were stuffed into a well-used set of riding boots. Definitely not the image of an elegant lord.

"Lord Stark. Forgive my impertinence in calling so late."

"Lord Lannister, is there some difficulty?"

"There are _many_ great difficulties, I fear. The Red Keep is a den of vipers, liars, thieves, backstabbers, and outright murderers. And to be blunt, you are perhaps too honorable a man for the unpleasant, necessary tasks ahead."

" _So that is the game you wish to play, Lannister_ ," Ned instantly calculated. The arrogance of him beyond reckoning. "You wished to inform me that you would make a superior Hand than I would, Lord Tywin? How gracious of you," he said icily.

A conceited smile first met the verbal counter attack. "No, I would not. Tonight is a time for truths, whether you would hear them or dare believe them, Lord Stark. While I could rein in the worst tendencies of my daughter, as Hand, I would lack the single most important quality required; the utter trust of Robert Baratheon." Hard, gold flecked, green eyes stared into Ned's cold, dark grey ones. "Use that trust. Ruthlessly."

"As you did for Aeyrs? As you did to Princess Elia and her children?"

"Why not add the Reynes to that list as well? Though with the clarity of hindsight, I admit my two greatest sins were permitting Ser Barristan's rescue attempt at Duskendale and, later, sending Clegane and Lorch to clear away the inconvenient rubble on the Baratheon path to the Iron Throne," he said with complete equanimity.

Fury gripped Ned's heart at the too casual admission of children's brutal murders. "You admit it" he hissed.

"I do." The Lion pointed at a camp chair. "May I? Its late, I drank copiously with his Grace, and I am not as young as I once was."

Before Ned could deny him with a withering blast, the giant arse sat any way.

"My thanks. As I was saying. Had I known how much madder Duskendale would make Aerys? Tsk. Tsk. He was difficult, but at least manageable before. And Aegon, the baby prince?" Sigh. "A regency of wise, clever lords would have benefited both the Realm and the Westerlands more than giving me an opportunity to make my daughter Queen."

"What are you saying about the King?" he demanded, struggling to keep his voice moderated. The Lion was damning himself with his own words and Ned hoped to let the man's tongue run free so that he might cut the whole head off later.

"Your friend, my goodson, Robert Baratheon, is a terrible King; interested only in spectacle, drinking, and whores, not governing the Seven Kingdoms."

"Many might call those words disloyal. Perhaps even treasonous?" his tone careful to imply and not accuse.

"Led no doubt by a chorus of those jealous of Casterly Rock and their betters. Led by connivers, those who use the Iron Throne and their positions under it in the Realm for mere money or titles or worse," he scoffed. "Those would be the " _words_ " of the actual traitors. Would a traitor have done this?" Tywin Lannister plucked the sack of his shoulder and tossed it on to the table nearest Ned, scattering the parchments stacked upon it. "Go ahead. Open it. Read them all and tell me I am wrong," he commanded in that absolutely certain voice; firm, but not loud, yet extremely compelling.

Keeping one eye on his foe, Ned opened what turned out to be a beaver hide, water-proof pouch. It contained a dozen to a score of parchments. He pulled one out. " _A Contract of Debt_ " it read at the top. He scanned through it. Fifty thousand gold dragons loaned by House Lannister to the Iron Throne. Repayable after five years at ten percent interest. The sigils of the Lion and the Stag were imprinted on it in two circles of wax side by side at the bottom. Ned noted the origination date; four years ago.

He pulled another one out and started reading. Twenty thousand gold dragons, again at ten percent interest. Due last year. A second parchment was attached to it. " _Renegotiation of Debt._ " A failure of payment identified with altered terms providing for an additional twenty thousand dragons, all payable in three years, but this time at twenty five percent interest.

He pulled a third one out – sixty thousand dragons.

A fourth – ten thousand dragons; this one specifically identified as a loan for Prince Joffrey's Name Day festivities five years ago.

A fifth – one hundred and fifteen thousand dragons.

A sixth … with an attached addendum.

Seventh, Eighth, Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh, Twelve, Thirteenth. He was doing his best to keep a running total of the sum in his head.

"One million one hundred fifteen thousand gold dragons … before interest," that arrogant voice said softly over his shoulder, causing Ned to jerk slightly.

Ned had become so engrossed, so enraged, he'd lost track of the Lannister. He spun about. The Lion was dangerously close to the wolf; and had apparently found where Ned kept the wine in his tent, for his rival clutched a goblet in his paw. "This is outrageous," he growled.

"I agree, Lord Stark. Though be pleased my interest rates are far less usurous than those the Iron Bank and the Faithful are charging the Iron Throne," the Lannister said with a smirk.

A heavy feeling lurched in his stomach. ' _Robert, what have you done?_ ' It would beggar the North to pay the Lannisters alone. "How much has the King borrowed?" He couldn't keep the hint of anger out of his tone.

"Only the Master of Coin _might_ be able to give you an exact figure. My factors …"

' _Factors? Spies more like,_ ' Ned instantly begrudged.

"… suggest at least three million dragons."

' _Why Robert? Why? How could you have allowed this, Jon?_ ' he bemoaned at the staggering sum. "Why are you telling me all this, Lord Lannister? Do you desire your gold back?" Ned asked sharply, knowing the Lannister would not hesitate to cripple him before he could even start as Hand. For despite the Lion's claim about lacking the single quality needed to be Robert's Hand, he believed Tywin Lannister would not hesitate a moment in accepting the position should Ned fail at it.

However, the Lion surprised him by tipping his head back and laughing with hearty amusement at the question. "No, though I admit _that_ possible need was a concern I investigated before I journeyed here. To my vast interest I discovered my House's coffers still overflowing. It appears I still shit gold copiously. Regardless of how well set Casterly Rock is, my concerns remain the same; Robert Baratheon is singularly unqualified to rule Westeros competently and only you, Eddard Stark, offer the hope of reining the wild Stag back."

Much as he hated to acknowledge it, based on his own observations of his old friend – and if these and the other sums of debt were correct – there was some truth in what the Lannister was saying. "Why do you care, Lord Lannister?" Ned challenged, at a loss in this game of verbal maneuvering so opting for the direct approach.

The Lion looked a moment in confusion at the wolf, as if he judging whether or not the other hunter might be prey. Then, "My grandson will one day sit upon the Iron Throne. And some day after that, so too will your grandson sit upon the Iron Throne after him. The Baratheon dynasty is new. I would work with you to keep the King from pissing and slashing that inheritance away like some stupid, drunk hedge knight."

"So you choose to go about proposing some sort of an alliance by visiting me unannounced in the dead of the night, mocking my honor, and asking me to betray the King's trust?"

"No, not betray, Lord Stark. Perhaps ..." and the Lion swirled the goblet in his paw a moment before taking a sip. Then, "abuse might be a better term. Few would even take note; and most of those would be the ones suffering from your new sense of ruthlessness and are of little note to the Realm. And is it truly abuse if you doing it to save the King from himself."

He realized that his anger and frustration had suddenly drained way. The Lannister's conceit was too awe-inspiring and all encompassing. Ned, if he was not so intrigued as to hear what lies and gibberish might come next out of the Lion's maw, would have laughed in his face. "Tell me more, Lord Twyin."

Hard, gold flecked green eyes stared at him a moment. Judging again. "You will require allies both on and off the Small Council. As Hand, simply remove those most staunchly against you and replace them with lords who owe their position to only you."

"Yes, with a snap of my fingers I shall banish Renly and Stannis Baratheon from King's Landing," he mocked with dry sarcasm.

"Prince Renly is an amusing fellow, like his eldest brother; and you will soon find is less useful than a toadstool as Master of Law. Luckily, he is the _unmarried_ Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Time for him to marry and rule over his banner lords, would not the Lord of Winterfell agree?"

"And Prince Stannis?" Ned prompted.

"A pain in the arse, who is disliked by the King; but thoroughly competent. Keep him around so that his Grace's wrath always has a place to pass over your head and land upon," the Lion scoffed. "Unfortunately, the Grand Maester's position is not one you can readily dismiss while breath lingers in the current one's lungs; however, Pycelle has long been my creature. Rest assured, word shall be passed that he is to back you in all things."

"All things?"

A slight smile. "Try not to overly anger Cersei. Pycelle would hear of it and as she is so much closer, he might forget himself," the Lion cautioned.

"Does that apply as well to Ser Barristan?"

"Gods no. The name of Barristan the Bold has meaning in the Realm. He lends honor to any man he serves. It is the other two members of the Small Council who you would be wisest to remove, Lord Stark. And most ruthlessly, your first day in King's Landing."

' _Petry Baelish and the eunuch Master of Whisperers, why?_ ' "They are mere lordlings. What threat do they pose?" ' _To you, Lord Lannister?_ '

"Those two are the reason for my mummer's farce in going to Riverrun with a too obvious attempt at a marriage alliance with your good brother. Between them, they know everything that happens in King's Landing and they own everyone; whether through outright bribery or blackmail."

' _Blackmail. What do they have over you, Lord Lannister._ ' "So far as I know, with Jon Arryn dead, Baelish lacks for a patron who would complain at him being removed. And no one ever cared for Varys that I ever heard."

The Lion smiled at Ned's musings.

"You have suggestions as to who should replace them?" Ned guessed.

A disgruntled look spasmed across the Lannister's face. "Of course I do, but you would not trust them, Lord Stark, because I named them. Find men you trust, not only with your life, but your children's lives too. Put them on the Small Council. Use them to replace the leaders of the Gold Cloaks. Use them to replace the Keepers of the Keys, the Chief Minter, the King's Counter, all the customs sergeants, all the harbor masters, all the tax farmers; leave no position unturned. For behind each one you will find either a mockingbird or a little bird. Trust none of them."

"Even yourself?" he suggested sharply.

A hand went up to stroke the close cropped beard that the Lion now sported instead of the oversized whiskers he had last time Ned saw him. A sigh. "That is the nub, is it not? I am neither a secret Targaryn nor do I boast that I took Catelyn Tully's maidenhead."

Ned hadn't thought that anything else the Lannister could say that night would anger him, but he was wrong.

"But a Lannister of Casterly Rock loves his gold. Very well," the Lion raised his paw so that the sigil ring caught and reflected a small flicker of light from one of the candles in the tent. "provide those contracts, a quill, and hot wax. The Iron Throne's debt to House Lannister shall be revoked entirely the moment Lords Varys and Baelish lose their heads."

Ned's suspicions deepened even further. "Removing them from the Small Council is not sufficient, my lord?" he asked harshly.

"I did state that a certain level of "ruthlessness" would be required of you, Lord Stark," the Lion replied with a wry smile.


	4. Chapter 3

**JAIME POV**

"There is something terribly odd with father," Cersei hissed in clear warning at him the moment Tommen and Myrcella were granted leave, having sufficiently broken their fast, to go play.

Jaime paused in bringing the slab of toasted oat bread slathered in raspberry jam to his lips. The feasting tent was mostly empty; a few late rising lords, who had not cared to curry Robert's favor by participating in the day's hunt, and the usual servant types. "I'll say," he agreed cheerily, refusing to lower his voice. "His beard does appear quite 'odd' now. And I did not remember his singing voice to be so fine."

This earned him the scowl he anticipated it would. "Not that, though he did make a fool of himself with Robert last night," his twin condemned their sire.

"Your dear husband has an impressive ability of persuasion. When the King says drink, what man dare refuses?" he chuckled.

"Father should. Stark does," she contradicted him, as was her frequent pleasure; whereas taming the wild lioness within her was his.

"Oh, Ice Face drank, just judiciously. Father too, truth be told." His Kingsguard duty the previous day had seen him accompany the fat whoremonger hunting; thus granting him release and the favor to dine at the royal table with his family. Not an indulgence that compelled his trained eyes to stop seeing nor his ears to suddenly grow deaf; most of his father's glasses had only been half-full when replaced.

"He japed. He laughed. He practically fawned over Robert. He appeared to enjoy himself," Cersei condemned with disgust.

All fair points, his father's brief contribution in judging which of the serving wenches had the largest pair of poonts had been rather a surprise. Not that Jaime would let his sister win so easily. "Father was Hand to mad Aerys for near twenty years. Give him credit for being agreeable with difficulty Kings when he needs to."

" _This_ is not court."

"Perhaps he requires something from our amiable monarch?" he breezily replied

"Exactly," she snarled in triumph.

Now Jaime scowled before stuffing the toast in his mouth so he could gather himself before returning to the tilt against his twin. He knew what his father desired above all and he was no more inclined to return to Casterly Rock than the last time he had been harangued about his duty as a Lannister. He casually chewed, swallowed, chewed, swallowed, and picked up his small beer to wash the remnants of it down with; all the while ignoring the demanding gaze attempting to delve through his flesh to the shared soul beneath.

"It could be a change of tactics on his part," he admitted. "Perhaps that is why he wished to ride with us this morning."

"There is rumor he intends to name an heir."

"Tyrion?" he hoped aloud. Perhaps the promised jaunt with the two of them that their father had finagled out of Robert last evening at sup would end better than the cool glares and brief, stilted converse he and his father had exchanged so far.

Immediately Cersei grimaced unattractively as she always did at mention of their brother.

Jaime sighed unhappily. The twins were bound together by everything but this one. And the wounds of it were always fresh.

"Tommen," she answered firmly.

" _That won't go over well, if true_ ," he thought; knowing his father would demand the boy learn how to lordship by his side in the Rock. "Why do you suspect?"

Her eyebrows crinkled, eyes narrowing. " _That_ is what is so truly odd about him," Cersei announced with a hint of triumph overlaying her suspicion. "Father spent all day yesterday talking with the children. Asking them questions. About King's Landing and Robert and the new Hand and how the realm is ruled from the Iron Throne. Spending an inordinate amount of time with Joffrey; asked him his feelings about the betrothal. He even later spoke with Sansa; and the nasty little wild wolf girl too."

Sadly, his twin could not see past her love for their children. Jaime's enforced position offered him the benefit of some distance. Cersei's points were the very opposite of being in her favor. He knew only too well the sting of their father's easily roused criticism. Joffrey was too cocksure for his still mediocre talents and Tommen too soft.

Both boys could do with a year or two, but no more lest their sparks be snuffed out, of disciplined instruction under Tywin; far away from Cersei and Robert. Yet he instinctively knew that these interviews would only confirm in his father's mind that his sons shared the faults of who Tywin believed both their parents to be.

That left one last futile attempt to change his mind, as he suspected; and then … Tyrion? … No, he must not delude himself. Father, much like his twin, could never see past the pain to the good, nay excellent, qualities in his brother. Their vitriol had driven him to drinking and whoring and gambling; which they then excoriated him for. Even forcing Jaime, to his shame, to share in.

"Tommen. You're likely right," he lied smoothly. Who else was there for Casterly Rock, after all? Or for Tyrion? A pity Aunt Genna only birthed weaselly sons. Perhaps in a half dozen years Uncle Gerion's sweet little bastard Joy would be old enough to ... to …

"Of course, I am. I shall have to start spending more time with Tommen, preparing him." Cersei suddenly gasped. "You don't think father will wish to take him back to Casterly Rock now!?"

Jaime laughed, much amused at her delayed realization of what the truth meant. And then he almost choked as a new thought slipped into his mind and almost burst his lungs with uproarious mirth. "Bwahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!"

"What … is … so … funny," his twin ground out through jaws clenched in near perfect mimicry of tight arsed Stannis Baratheon.

"What if father's journey into the Riverlands was not in search of a betrothal for cousin Myrielle, but … but for him?!"

Cersei's lovely green eyes shot wide open and her clenched jaw came so unhinged a raven could have roosted in it.

"Bwahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!" Jaime began erupting again in peals of laughter.

* * *

As his father spoke with cousin Daven off in the distance, there was something _off_ about the man that tickled the back of Jaime's brain since he had mounted his reddish roan and Cersei her chestnut five minutes earlier. Those two had already been engaged in a conversation by the edge of the paddocked area at that time. Both topped by wide-brimmed, floppy styled hats; the rest of father's riding garb in traditional Lannister colors, while Daven sported dull browns and grays more suitable for a Stark.

"Why must we wait?" Cersei the Queen harped from atop the horse beside him. The delay for father and kin apparently a _Seven_ laden curse upon her royal patience and dignity; a brother, a twin, a lover's presence insufficient to please her spoiled temperament at the moment.

Jaime found it a thoroughly pleasant day outside. Blue skies, wispy clouds, warm, but neither too warm nor muggy. A breeze coming up the Trident to keep most but the most daring and talents pests off and the heaviest of the smell of hay and dung away. And yet, more thankfully, not too stiff as to ruin his twin's pointlessly elaborate coiffed hair and cause a slew of complaints of the type that he had little interest in soothing. All-in-all, a day the _Father_ intended for the _Warrior_ to ride fast and hard on, in his own not so humble opinion; though the ride might do to Cersei's hair what the breeze could not. " _One challenge at a time, Ser. One challenge at a time,_ " Ser Arthur used to quip at him.

"Because father is telling our dear cuz he's won Casterly Rock so long as he agrees to marry Myrcella in, oh, say six years?" he teased his other half upon gathering his thoughts. Sometimes the lioness needed a little prodding of the proper kind so that he might enjoy taming her later.

"Stop," she commanded in the tone that would brook no interference.

"The Princess could do worse than the knightly Daven. Why he's almost half as handsome and a quarter skilled with a blade as myself," he purposefully provoked.

She sniffed her dismissal of his comment just loud enough so he could hear it.

He chuckled lightly any way at his jape, just to prove he knew it had struck regardless her reaction.

They watched as a small, yet solid looking pouch was passed between the two mounted men a furlong off; from the elder to the younger.

"What was that?" Cersei asked suspiciously.

"The dowry for our new stepmother."

"Father would rather sleep with a whore," his twin declared with utter certainty. Which was to say, 'never.'

Daven slipped the purse into an already well stuffed saddle bag. Wherever father was sending his nephew, it appeared that the pale imitation of Jaime would likely not return that night.

His curiosity at what was transpiring out of earshot nevertheless did not stop Jaime from continuing to tease his sister, his twin, his love. He made his voice take on their father's distinct, commanding voice and tone, "Children, I'd like you to meet your new mother … the Lady Shella Whent."

That caused Cersei's defenses to slip and she emitted a snort of amusement. Jaime smiled in victory.

"Better her than Lollys Stokeworth, she might try to eat us," his twin snickered, getting into the mood of it. The unmarried daughter of Lady Tanda represented all that Cersei despised most: fat, ugly, desperate, stupid, and pathetic.

"Or worse, crush us," he laughed. "Come, give your new mama a hug, sweetlings." he announced in a high pitched approximation of the spinster's speech.

"Finally," Cersei announced, her tone instantly serious again. Daven had at last gotten his mount moving; off towards the southbound Kingsroad and the infamous Ruby Ford.

How might Jaime's life have altered if Aerys had sent him there with Ser Barristan, Prince Lewyn, and Ser Jonothor? Instead of … instead of …

Father watched Daven go for a few moments and then pulled on the reins of his piebald to turn it back in their direction before spurring his horse into a fast trot towards them.

" _Ahh, that's it_ ," Jaime realized. His father was sitting and riding his horse differently than normal; posture slightly less erect. His upper thighs were also gripping the sides of the saddle and the flanks of the horse lower than was his usual way, pushing the stirrups down and out a tad further. Signs he was not comfortable in his seat or, if he were someone else, a less than immaculate equestrian.

"Are we ready?" Tywin Lannister inquired with typical brusqueness, as if he was not the cause of the brief delay to the start of their ride. One he had expressly sought with his children.

"You are sitting oddly today, father," Jaime stated, nodding his head up and down once to indicate how the other was mounted. "Are you well?"

His father stiffened ever so slightly; taking it as accusation of some intolerable shortcoming. Cold, calculating gold-flecked green eyes stared into his warm, cat green mocking ones. The newly trimmed beard nodded marginally in stiff acknowledgement of the question.

"My bowels have ached since before I left Casterly Rock, if you must know. Shall we ride or would you prefer instead to remain and discuss the condition of my piles as well?" the Lord of Casterly Rock slapped his son down with that haughty arrogance of his.

Jaime looked gleefully forward to sneering down the inevitable request to come.

* * *

Surrounded loosely by a dozen red cloaks, they initially set out east on the High Road; the same path that the King and his Hand had taken at first light. It took a half an hour for the horses to blow out their initial burst of energy and become properly tractable. Cersei rode passably well, not that she got much practice in the Red Keep. She was aided by strong thighs; _that_ , Jaime could personally testify too, but again, with little thanks due to the frustratingly too close confines of the Red Keep.

About the time the escorts finished sorting themselves into the pattern and positions that they would take for the jaunt, Tywin led them off the road where it broke more north-easterly to approach the rocky foothills of the Mountains of the Moon. None present wished to meet up the drunk Stag and his ice faced jester as they relived the dull travels of their childhood along the road, coming and going from the Riverlands to the Arryn's poor simulation of the Rock called the Eyrie.

So off between and through planted fields of wheat and other grains, tubers, beans, and clover and other fodder they rode due east at nothing faster than a trot; occasionally passing over fallow ground as they more or less stayed parallel to the Trident that could occasionally be spied from hilltops.

After the first hour, Cersei began shooting him purposeful, irritated glares. Jaime only smirked back at her; knowing that their father's silence was the cause of it. The longer that lasted, the more agitated his twin's imaginative mind would become; a cascade of increasingly paranoid threats and possible disasters, increasing the chance she could not present a coherent objection to whatever lordly matter of House Lannister that Tywin wished to speak to them about. Very Tywin of him.

Father knew Cersei and her ways well. But of his son? Hardly at all. The man was too blinded by his own expectations and arrogance. And Jaime had learned the hard lessons of patience and the repression of his wants as a Kingsguard. He would not be played. No. He would be the one doing the playing.

Near the end of the second hour, their father at last paused by a slowly trickling brook that bisected a wide meadow. The red cloaks fanned out even wider to give them the privacy that the sounds of riding had previously afforded them; not that Tywin had said more than a score of words.

The horses were allowed to drink, but not too much lest their muscles tighten up. Their mounts thirsts sufficiently slaked, wine skins were unslung. Cersei and Jaime sipped lightly; while Tywin drank deep, then put back his stopper. His gaze wandered about; face that blank, unrevealing slate it almost always was.

"Father, why have you …" Cersei began aggressively; clearly exasperated and unable to contain herself a second longer.

"Is Robert still as great a fool as ever?" that commanding voice cut through before she could further phrase her complaint. "Uninterested in ruling. Only drinking. And getting his cock wet with whatever noble slut or cheap whore catches his royal fancy?" he asked with pure disdain.

Jaime laughed in delight at the sheer unexpectedness of the conversation's opening.

Cersei goggled and stewed, taking the harsh words as a reproach of herself. Which unfairly it likely was; as if the Maiden herself wouldn't find the drunk Stag an unbearable burden to cajole to usefulness, let alone faithfulness.

"Well, is he?" their father insisted urgently without giving the impression of haste.

"Worse than a fool," Cersei admitted hotly. "The number of times that drunk lout has flaunted …."

"Enough," he slashed through her words again. "There was some slim hope that Jon Arryn's death might jar him to the good. T'was a boon not to be expected, I suppose. More chance of teaching a babe to unshit his smallclothes. And Eddard Stark, what do you make of him? Might he restrain Robert's proclivities? Or at least rule reasonably well in his stead?"

Cersei and he exchanged quick glances. That was a facet of the question that they had secretly kept asking each other the entire journey; going to, staying in, and returning from Winterfell. Would the wolf suspect Jon Arryn's death to be a murder? Of which they were innocent, but Stark clearly held little love for House Lannister. Would the new Hand investigate things? And perhaps discover things better left undisturbed of which the twins were not so innocent? At least the questions unambiguously revealed father's sudden amiability with Robert to be mere pretense.

"He would make a dutiful, competent Steward of Casterly Rock for you, father," came Cersei's scathing assessment of the overrated killer of the Sword of the Morning.

"Winter shall melt in the South. And Robert is no longer the hero Stark remembers from his boyhood," Jaime declared, echoing his twin's sentiment. "I watched Stark closely in Winterfell. He is disappointed in his friend. Becoming Hand worries him, but he is too proud and honorable to say no."

Those calculating eyes assessed Jaime, just long enough for him to take it as insolence from another. "Would you say no to the offer, Jaime?" came the cold question.

He laughed at the absurdity of the idea of the position ever being offered him. "Of course, I would," he declared.

Cersei uttered the slenderest "mew" of disappointment at his declaration.

"And that is why you shall never be Lord of Casterly Rock," Tywin Lannister announced firmly, without a shred of disappointment. Then his father prodded his spurs into his mount, and as the beast lurched forward said loudly, "Come tell me of the embarrassments Tyrion brought upon our house during your stay in Winterfell."

" _Bloody arse, you never intended to ask me, did you?_ " he thought angrily as the mocking smile of pretend indifference automatically slid onto his visage. He raked his own horse to start the chase after his father. "Oh, the usual," he declared in a loud, airy quality. "Tyrion and Robert make an endearing pair with their shared vices. Alas, I heard the whores in Wintertown were a limited, rather ragged set of diseased hags."

The slanders he then continued to cast upon his beloved brother were simply temporary barbs with which to affirm their father's expectations; and thus wound him. He knew Tywin Lannister would never permit a dwarf to inherit Casterly Rock, so there was little reason testify as to Tyrion's good qualities.

* * *

They reined to a stop on a hillock golden with unharvested hay. To the North and East of them, despite over ten years of summer, snow still capped the highest of peaks in the distant Mountains of the Moon. Below them to the South, in the not quite so distant Trident, a few boats plied the dirty, silt filled waters of the wide, slow drifting river.

Since their brief respite by the low creek, Tywin Lannister had engaged them in periodic conversation as they continued riding east across the countryside. Perhaps "conversation" was too kind a word for the interrogation Jaime and his sister received. A demand to know the allegiance and motivations of all the Small Council and how each would likely respond to Stark's presence as Hand. Their father chastised Cersei for the very real faults he had so quickly uncovered in mere hours of "grandfatherly" talk with both Joffery and Tommen. Then querying of the intelligence and character of his young nephews Lancel and Tyrek in the performance of their duties as the drunk Stag's squires.

Their own questions were either ignored or deflected or turned back upon the twins as attacks. Unease gripped Jaime as he poured libations down his own parched and dusty throat. He was inured to a lifetime's worth of criticism from his father; harsh though it often was, there was generally some current of a Maester still hoping to nurture a spark within a particularly dull witted student buried within it. Not today.

Cersei cleared her throat and condescendingly asked, "Father, did you truly have any hope that the silly trout might become enamored of cousin Myrielle?" His twin was a Queen and not a Kingsguard. Despite being, as ever, cowed by their father, her spirit refused to meekly accept all the day's abuse.

The long, judging gaze. "Would it have killed you, Cersei, to have given Robert just one black haired child?"

Jaime's face stiffened immediately at the implication. Would there be more?

Cersei blinked wide once in startlement before reasserting some control over herself. A little, slightly too forced, laugh. Then, "As if any but the Seven control what color a child's hair is?" she answered dismissively.

"Robert Baratheon is a great fool. I, however, am not. Neither was Jon Arryn. Nor is Stannis Baratheon or Grand Maester Pycelle or Petyr Baelish or that eunuch, Varys. Nor will Eddard Stark be," their father proclaimed sternly, but not loudly.

Instantly, Jaime's eyes surveyed the area. None of the red cloaks were close enough to over hear them … if they kept their voices lowered.

"We did not murder, Jon Arryn," his twin blurted out.

" _We?_ " he bemoaned to himself at Cersei's blind panic both admitted the truth of the accusation and linked him in father's astute eyes to the very blonde headed Joffery, Tommen, and Myrcella.

"No, you didn't. But Lord Stark believes you did. What will his son Bran say if he wakes up, hmmmmnn? Did you at least leave an assassin behind to make sure the boy never speaks?"

"No. We. No. No. We never," Cersei stuttered under the onslaught.

Jaime felt his fingers furtively searching for the dagger at his belt. He had seen no reason to take a sword for a ride with his father.

"Bah, stop lying," the Old Lion demanded in repugnance. "How many will you kill in vain to keep a secret already known by too many? Will you set the entire realm on fire? Of course you'd be willing to slay Robert. Or Stark. But would you see Joffrey die by your careless stupidity? Would you slay me and add another cursed epithet to your name, Jaime?"

Icy cold gold-flecked, green eyes stared hard at Jaime's belt; where he grasped the pommel of the blade. " _Kinslayer as well as Kingslayer?_ " He snatched his hand away in horror. The secret, Cersei, their all consuming passion; yes, that had been his natural first inclination. The sardonic words " _The things I do for love_ " began to reverberate within his brain, now mocking the mocker.

Tywin Lannister nodded with a hint of approval at his move away from violence, but no smile pierced his lordly, commanding mask.

His father's ongoing aloofness and finality of tone at last came into a brutal clarity for him. The supposed pain in the Old Lion's gut since Casterly Rock. The journey to the Riverlands. To the Kingsroad and the royal party. To speaking alone with the children. Everything either a deception or a confirmation in order to permit this moment right here right now. Some clue had clearly come to the Rock. It did not matter who had passed it along. All that mattered now was that Tywin Lannister believed it and that the status of his house meant everything to the hardhearted bastard. "You mean to tell Robert … or Stark," Jaime uttered emotionlessly.

"I do," the Lord of Casterly Rock agreed without an ounce of sympathy.

"What would you have us do? Please?" Cersei begged in the rarest of all tones, frightened; any thought of feigning ignorance of their sins, their crimes, instantly sapped out of her.

Robert would happily believe an accusation from Tywin Lannister; the drunk despised Cersei nearly as much as she loathed him. Again, Jaime's fingers wished to dance back to his belt. He could kill his father; resulting in his own death, either immediately from the surrounding red cloaks or later at the King's command. But Cersei would remain free, blameless ...

"Leave the Seven Kingdoms."

"Leave?" Cersei asked, shocked at the suggestion of exile. It was a better offer than kneeling before Ilyn Payne.

"Or Jaime could kill me. You might even get away with it. For a while. Neither of you is without a certain low cunning. Pull out your dagger. Disappoint me again," father both challenged and condemned his son yet another time.

No. He refused to be that person. He would not be manipulated by others misunderstanding of him. "Allow me to resign from the Kingsguard and I'll become your heir. Return with you straight away to Casterly Rock. And Cersei can still bear Robert a Baratheon looking son," Jaime stated calmly, looking for a way to retreat from this battle.

His twin's face battled with itself over the idea. Her need of him. Her desire to be Queen. Her hatred of the cruel drunk wearing a crown he didn't deserve.

"False promises, do not become you. Besides, t'would only be a delay of months or a year at best. Useless should Bran Stark awaken with his memories intact. Regardless, our enemies will see it as the retreat and tacit admission of the deed that it is. They will be emboldened to all the sooner reveal the depths of your depravity. No, so long as either of you remain in Westeros, the long reach of the King's justice can reach you. The Westerlands can not, will not, stand alone to defend you from the consequences of your madness. My legacy will not be vultures picking over our house's bones."

Cersei started to weep quietly.

"Leave to where?" Jaime asked softly in acquiescence.

"Essos. I have arranged a riverboat five or so miles further down the Trident. It contains gold and a change of clothes. Dyes for your hair. It will take you to Saltpans. A cog is already preparing to depart in the morning for Pentos. Disappear in the Free Cities. Journey to Qarth. Go as far as Asshai. Ride with the Dothraki. I care not which, so long as no one from Westeros sees and guesses who you are for years."

"That's as good as admitting our … my children's bastardy. Robert will slay them," Cersei protested through tears, still unwilling to openly acknowledge their incest. "What of your legacy then?"

Their father issued a cruel laugh. "And have the proud King with more bastards than I have fingers and toes admit to the whole realm that he, the mighty Demon of the Trident, was made a cuckold by one of his own Kingsguard in the vilest Targaryen tradition? No." More dark laughter. "I think not. Without your presence to taint them, to have the truth tortured out of you, the scum will mutter, but the Baratheon will refuse to believe. My grandchild shall one day sit upon the Iron Throne."

"What of Casterly Rock? Who shall inherit?" she sniffed. Even in defeat, his twin could not help but selfishly ask the question.

"Either Tommen shall inherit it or Myrcella will marry a cousin. My blood, _mine_ , shall continue to head our house."

Never Tyrion. "How much gold?" he inquired, moving on to practicalities. Pondering his brother's possible fate must wait. "How can you trust that the boat and the gold will be … oh … Daven," he suddenly realized, remembering the morning. Just like with Clegane and Lorch, his father accounted for every contingency and put plans in place to remove the obstacles to his goals. He barked a short, bitter laugh. Ser Jaime Lannister had become merely another obstacle for his father to overcome.

Triumph gleamed in Tywin Lannister's eyes. "Yes, your cousin. Lannisters protect Lannisters as best they can. He awaits you, only knowing that Cersei has somehow engendered the King's rage and that the Stag intends to overthrow the Lioness upon their return to King's Landing with the new Hand. Your mysterious disappearance will gain sympathy for Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella. That is all he need know from you, understand?"

The names of the children caused Cersei to commence weeping again.

"A simple enough plan. I suppose we should dye our hair before arriving in Saltpans."

"That would be advisable," their father condescended.

"Will Daven sail with us?"

"To Pentos? Certainly not."

Jaime wearily shook his head no. "To Saltpans."

"No. Drop him off on the other side of the river. Bring one of your horses on board for him to use, so that he might return on the morrow to the Inn."

He laughed. "Everyone knows my mounts. Don't you think even the most ignorant squire will find that suspicious?"

"Not if he only rides it as far as where he left his own mount. Do you take me for a fool, Jaime?"

The slur drew out the mocking smile of his. "And what will you say, father, when you return without us?"

Tywin Lannister stared at his son as if he were an idiot. "That you, again, spurned my demand that you beg Robert to resign from the Kingsguard. So I stormed off in anger, taking my red cloaks with me," he explained as if talking with a slowwitted child.

Jaime couldn't help but laugh. Father always had the answers; his answers.

"UNGRATEFUL CHURL!" the Old Lion suddenly roared, like a mummer drawing attraction to his farce. "You deny your house, preferring to carry the title of Kingslayer more proudly than you would Lord of Casterly Rock! To SevenHells with you!" He tugged powerfully at his reins, startling the horse and almost causing him to tip out of his saddle. Then spurs jabbed cruelly into flanks and the piebald leapt into motion.

All the red cloaks looked up, equally startled, from where they sat at varying degrees of inattention.

"To me! To me, damn your hides!" Father shouted, passing rapidly from trot to canter to gallop.

The escorts quickly scurried to catch up to their lord.

"We are on our own, Cersei," he said to his twin.

"We will make them pay for this," she snarled bitterly.

There were no more tears, but her eyes were red. They shared a look.

"A Lannister always pays his debts," they pledged together.

* * *

There sat the single masted river boat, drawn up into the mud of the shallows; a furlong off from the northern bank of the wide spread, frequently flooded Trident. A wide board slopped down from the loading break in the gunnels into the knee high water. And Daven dressed in browns and greys lounged lazily in a chair on the raised rudder wheel deck; feet propped up on a railing, wide brimmed hat tugged down over his eyes against the sun.

"HO! CUZ!" Jaime hollered.

A hand went to tip the brim up, then went the rest of the way up in the air to first wave a greeting and then gesture for them to come closer.

Jaime looked East and then West down the Trident. A few insubstantial sails lay near the horizon towards Saltpans and a galley was stroking away from them in the direction of the Ruby Ford. He and Cersei had seen hardly a soul on the mostly silent ride into exile; each lost in their own thoughts of loss and grief and shame at laying down like so many sheep before their father.

"Let me go up the board, I'm the better rider," he told his twin.

"And make me get wet dismounting in that filth? Ha!" Cersei jabbed her spurs and vaulted down the embankment. "Catch me if you can!" her challenge floated in the light breeze.

"This could be fun," Jaime whispered to himself; and not meaning the chase. Cersei had always had as daring a spirit as he; their childhoods in the Rock had been full of foot races, hide and seek, wrestling, and battles with wooden swords.

Sand spurted out beneath his horse's hooves; then water and mud.

Cersei was crouched low over the top of her saddle, married to her mount's neck; moving fast as a demon. Jaime, behind, but closing, enjoyed seeing the tightness of her riding dress, the flare of her hips, the tautness and slight jiggle of her supple arse.

At least in Essos they would no longer have to hide their love, keep the lid on the boiling cauldron of their passion. Exile promised a sort of release. Only their faces must remain hidden. If father hadn't stinted on the gold.

The muzzle of his reddish roan was near even with the left fetlock of her chestnut as the boat began to loom closer. The joy of Cersei's laugh and exhilaration buoyed his heart. The muck flung up upon the both of them by their horse's hooves clearly not the same concern that dismounting into the shallows would have been. Ha!

He judged he had just time to pull his horse's shoulders even with her mount's withers and his roan's superior weight could nudge her aside, granting him victory. No. He pulled back slightly. Eased off the pace. She needed a victory more than he did.

She looked over her shoulder at him and grinned; seeing that she had "bested" him. Then too, slowed down from a gallop so that she might quite daringly take the plank at only a slow canter.

Clankety-clankety-clack the board reverberated as she both ascended and slowed.

Daven stood waiting, sun at his back, to catch her reins as Jaime also came to a stop near the base of the plank. He wondered whether he should take his saddle with him, or score it with blade strokes to appear as if it had been in a fight. The more confusion about their disappearance the better.

"AGGHHHHHHHHHH!" Cersei began shrieking; jerking Jaime's head up to see what in SevenHells was happening.

Daven had her arm and was yanking her fiercely out of the saddle. He hopped out of his own, hand instinctively going for his dagger.

Cersei's struggles windmilled her arms into their treacherous cousin's face; causing his wide-brimmed, floppy styled hat to fly off his head.

"LORCH!" he screamed, starting the rush up the plank. Not Daven. Why was …? Ice instantly formed in his bowels. He _was_ just another obstacle to Tywin Lannnister. Who was the Kinslayer now? "I'LL KILL YOU!"

His twin was at last battered down. Unmoving.

Sluggishly the pig faced shite started raising a cocked crossbow.

Jaime felt each individual breath as he exerted himself, extending all his senses, slowing time down.

Not laggardly enough.

The Manticore would lift his stinger in time.

For an eternity Jaime assessed whether to charge forward, taking the bolt, and for certain plowing his mass into the killer to have a final revenge or dive leftward to better avoid the shot, as the horse blocked the right, and try to slice open the assassin's throat in passing.

In a splint second he dove left.

Floating through the air he just spied an immense, hulking figure crouched down in what passed for a hold in a simple river boat. Gregor Clegane. The Mountain. " _Father plans for everything_ ," Jaime thought.

TWANG-THUNK!

The quarrel took him in the chest, passing between ribs, the head lodging in what he guessed must be his lungs.

Jaime dropped, smashing on to the gunnel, then flipped over arse backwards to plummet into the watery filth below.

He felt wetness in his mouth, not knowing whether it was his blood or the Trident.

It tasted salty.

He felt …


	5. Chapter 4

**RENLY POV**

 _The sun had never shown so bright in the outer yard of the Red Keep as Renly marched out of the portcullis for the middle bailey and into the joyous throngs gathered for his coronation. Baratheon colored ebon and gold bunting hung from the pale cherry tinted curtain walls of his castle. Scores of horns pealed rapturously to announce his arrival. Whilest the minor lords, the attractive ladies, the handsome knights, and the most prosperous small folks of the city, all wearing their finest, ardently screamed his name: "Renly!" "King Renly!" "Renly!" "The Crowned Stag!" "Renly!" "The King!"_

 _He himself, he wisely discerned with his clever, beautiful blue eyes, had never appeared so fine either. Freshly cut and washed thick black hair, soon to receive its due, framed an amiable and a noble, nay a royal, face. His lean, muscular, tall body beneath a green doublet of Qarthi silk sporting gold embroidered antlers smelled lightly of the wonderfully aromatic perfume from Lys his bevy of attractive servants had anointed him with in his magnificent nudity prior to donning him of his garb. Tight, ebon dyed cotton pants, that emphasized his powerful thighs, tapered into a pair of magnificent Dornish flared leather boots. And at his waist sat the symbol of his martial prowse and right to rule, the renowned Blackfyre._

 _Six white cloaks, of whom only Ser Arys appeared unhelmeted and thus recognizable, escorted him along the flower strewn path through the crowd; as Renly condescended with utmost nobility to wave acknowledgement of his leal subjects' clamoring love and devotion. Surprisingly, he could not seem to remember whom he had chosen to replace the missing Kingslayer and the dreary, offputting lot of Blount, Moore, Trant, and Greenfield. So as the procession trod over the rose petals delivered from loyal Highgarden, Renly made a game for himself of guessing which of his boon companions had accepted the five positions in his Kingsguard._

 _And suddenly the huge doors to the Throne Hall opened for him. More trumpets blared their love for him in deep, dancing, emotional notes. All the great lords and ladies of the Seven Realms bowed as he strode purposefully towards the Iron Throne and his destiny. Each and every one of them dressed in their richest silks and velvets and satins sporting the colors and devices of their noble houses. All, that is, except for Tywin and Tyrion Lannister; sackcloth for one and motley the other. It pleased Renly to no end to witness the Lions' pride grovel before the mighty Stag._

 _Only the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, his veiled bride, and the High Septon stood on the dais to greet him. Renly stared deeply into the loving, brown eyes of Loras; cherishing together the triumph, the culmination of his dream._

" _Your Grace?" the High Septon queried softly, spoiling the moment. The still attractive, just starting to grey man slightly lifted up the pillow upon which the crown rested to stress the importance of his uttering; as if no one present understood why all of Westeros was gathered here._

" _Know your place, Timeon," Renly declared sternly, though quietly; the smile never leaving his face. "I can make another High Septon and return you whence Stannis cast you. Never think to impose upon my affection for you. Never."_

" _Of course," the former junior Septon of Storm's End immediately answered contritely; batting those familiar sad, puppy dog eyes at him. Eyes undoubtedly undressing the man before him much the same way his soft hand once actually disrobed a squire of ten and three name days._

" _Good," he said magnanimously. "First, Ser Loras shall take the pretty circlet of dark silver from you and crown me. Then, you, High Septon, may crown my royal bride. Understood?"_

" _Yes, your Grace."_

" _Yes, my King."_

" _Yes, my royal husband."_

 _Her voice was familiar, but Renly could not quite place it. And the chiffon veil was not quite diaphanous enough for him to clearly discern her features. No matter. She would love him all the same and bear his heirs; if not his eternal affection._

" _Begin," he commanded regally; turning to face the audience of his subjects and drawing himself up to his full stature._

 _Then Loras was beside him, where he was ever meant to be. "In the name of the Warrior, the Father, and the Seven, I proclaim you Renly Baratheon, First of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. And Protector of the Realm," announced the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard._

 _Aegon's crown, rendered of Valyrian steel and set with large square cut rubies, came down gently, securely, upon his honorable brow._

 _The brilliance of Renly's smile pierced even the most glum heart._

" _ALL HAIL KING RENLY!" the Knight of Flowers cry roared across the crowded Throne Room._

" _King Renly!"_

" _King Renly!"_

" _King Renly!"_

" _King Renly!"_

* * *

"Prince Renly?"

He heard a far off call.

"Prince Renly?"

"hhhmmmn?" he sighed, drifting half way between sweet slumber and unwanted awareness.

"Prince Renly?"

"What dreams, I had," he whispered wishfully.

"Prince Renly, the Hand requests your attendance," the insistent voice continued.

Renly Baratheon, second brother of the King, fourth in line to the Iron Throne, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Lord of Storm's End, and Master of Law on the Small Council took a deep, despondent breath before cracking open a single weary eye. "Ah, my crow cackles," he muttered with soft amusement.

The pretty yet earnest dutiful face of his youthful squire staring down at him, as he lay splayed across what the inn called a mattress, smiled lightly at the familiar quip. "Yes, my Prince," Bert Morrigen agreed. Then the smile vanished as quickly as it came; pert lips returning to reform again those annoying words. "The Hand requests …"

"Oh, I heard already," Renly pouted, pulling a pillow over the one eye; as if he had no intention of doing anything other than staying in bed.

"My Prince?" the sweet boy pressed.

Renly moodily rolled his lanky body over completely away from the pestering question; the movement making him aware of the presence of his usual early morning cockstand.

"What shall I tell the page?" came the insistent voice.

" _To bugger off_ ," he wished to yell. However, reality won out. No matter how much the idea of "buggery" was in fact beginning to grow in his brain, delectable Bert had never shown any inclination that way in the six months since becoming his primary squire. "Has Cersei returned?" he grumbled; guessing that the Lannister Bitch, one way or the other, was at the root of yet another imposition being placed upon him.

"The Queen and Ser Jaime are still absent."

"Ugh," Renly huffed. He hoped again for the umpteenth time that Robert's dear friend would not be as much of a bore as Hand as old Jon Arryn had been. Then he flipped back over beneath the sheets covering his aroused nudity. "Am I expected to track them down myself?"

"Riders went out at first light, my Prince."

It was at that point that Renly noted Bert holding his morning cup of Highgarden hippocras. Practicality finally settled in. "Put the glass on the table, then go tell that blasted page that … that the Royal Prince Renly shall attend Lord Stark once he has completed his ablutions."

"Very good, my Prince," his squire acknowledged his commands; promptly setting the goblet down and turning about to leave the room.

Renly sighed. There was nothing quite as appealing in the morning as a pert young arse. He threw the sheets off and climbed out of bed; his sword swaying to and fray with his motion. Quickly the cup went to his lips. With nothing discrete to sheath his blade into, the warm cinnamon and spice wine would likely be his only pleasure for the morning.

Not that great of a loss; and just a temporary one, he admitted. Besides, hadn't he promised Loras on the eve his lover's departure from King's Landing that he would remain chaste during the months of their separation? A promise Renly was proud to have kept … mostly. A Prince must be allowed a few faults.

* * *

Approaching the canvas and wood edifice, it needled him how the expensive pavilion inoffensively lugged halfway across Westeros from Casterly Rock for Tywin's vanity had become, without any apparent discussion or agreement, the royal feasting and drinking and carousing hall. Yet one more example in a long litany that he could recite from memory of the insidiously pervasive nature of the Lannisters in the affairs of House Baratheon.

Renly paused a moment on the cusp in order to gird himself for the coming verbal joust; waving off the page desiring to announce his presence. Then, robustly stepping inside the golden lion speckled, crimson colored tent – and looking magnificent in doing so in a subtly sequined forest green jerkin over a pale yellow silk doublet – Renly cheerily announced, "Good morrow to you, brother!"

"Renly," his brother growled back at him unhappily from out of the thick hedge on his face that already showed a drink induced flush seeping out above and below the bristles.

Proceeding boldly forward, he automatically assessed the feel of the "hall" against the tidbits already provided him by his servants, both high and low. Robert, as King, naturally was always the first target of his discerning gaze. The light was sufficient to red, blood shot eyes glaring at him; further confirmation of a night of little sleep and much wine. All-in-all, making for an irascible and temperamental Robert; and, thus, susceptible in Renly's long experience.

Stark, sitting just to the right of Robert at the rough lumbered "High" table in the pavilion, looked equally unhappy and just as tired; if considerably more sober. The man so far was a bit of a puzzle, not matching the mischievous friend his brother had always described. Sober excellently descriptive for the cool Northman. Still, his purposeful distance from the Lannisters made him a potential ally. "You desired to see me, Lord Eddard?" he queried the dour Hand.

"We wished the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and the Master of Laws to join our council," the gloomy Wolf replied in a poor attempt, if such it was, at chastisement for Renly's lateness.

"Then you shall have those two of me, if you don't mind the third breaking his fast at the same time?" he disarmingly declared in a light tone whilst his keen eyes continued scrying about. Gallant Ser Barristan sat directly to the left of Robert's heroic frame – a place Renly had grown accustomed to during his brother's months long absence in the North.

As he snatched up an uncushioned chair so that he might set where he desired on his own side of the "High" table, Renly noted the fair red-headed Trout seated with the tawny Lioness at one end of the long board and the Old Lion, solitary and predatory, at the far other end. He purposefully plunked himself down halfway twixt Lannister and Stark. No need to tip his hand that he actually favored one o'er the other.

"Is our fair Cersei still absent?" he asked as innocently as he could muster without laughing. He had spied the presence of other prominent lords and knights under the colorfully decorated canvas roof. As well as the white cloak and squires standing behind Robert. But for the moment, all of them were beneath his concern as he tested the lay of the game.

Wine sloshed and spilled on the wood planks as Robert slammed both fists down. "You damn well know she is, Renly," he bellowed, which was true.

"So yes, then? And Ser Jaime too?" he asked smoothly, turning as he spoke to obviously address the haughty, interfering pair's father.

Hooded, hunter's eyes pierced out at him. "My son is also unaccounted for," came the icy hot, yet utterly controlled, response. At last the affable, and even occasionally amusing, demeanor of Tywin Lannister's, which had even charmed Renly, was falling away to reveal the cruel lord of legend and Cersei's boasts.

"Nothing to worry about, Lord Tywin; I am sure," he declared with offhanded confidence; adding, "A mount likely just threw a shoe and they have been forced to ignobly spend the night in some moldy haystack or drafty crofter's barn. I fear I don't see why my counsel is necessary here."

"Or they could be in danger," Robert rumbled.

" _I can only hope,_ " Renly wished fervently.

"Riders were sent at first light to search for them," the Hand indicated.

"Any bandit would be mad to try Ser Jaime's blade," Edmure Tully babbled in evident sweet consideration of the ripe creature he was too obviously fawning over.

"I am sorry, Lord Eddard, I fail to see what problem requires my sage advice," Renly genially repeated, screwing his face into a faintly questioning look. "Ahh, lovely," he stated as a cup was placed before him.

"His Grace desires to ride off after the Queen."

"Ahhh," he drawled slowly in both pleasure and understanding as he put down the small beer he had immediately swallowed half of. Most men in his brother's evident condition would not make it ten miles a horse; but then, Robert was not most men. Far, far from it. "Robert's concern for lovely Cersei is touching." Especially as his brother loathed the noisome bitch even more than Renly did. "And the Demon of the Trident _is_ a knight of action. I can hardly see a reason to deny the King this most reasonable desire."

"It gains his Grace little to possibly be a dozen miles off on a false trail when word returns here of my children's true location," the Old Lion purred with a soul-less logic. No heart, only greed, to the man. Even where it concerned his own flesh. Another, different, Stannis in his way.

"Ttch, ttch, ttch. What is this talk of false trails, Lord Tywin. Did they not ride off with you yesterday? Where might you have lost them?"

"Yes, where?!" Robert's demand forcibly echoed his question.

Leonine eyes shrunk to slits of displeasure at being challenged; the mouth a puckering twin. The Lord of Casterly Rock was not so amiable and pleasing now. And Robert not in a mood to be readily appeased.

"Lord Tywin already told the outriders where they parted, your Grace," Ned tried unenthusiastically to foolishly placate the fixated stag.

The Hand's tone well pleased him; for the Wolf was clearly ill disposed towards defending the arrogant Lion. Renly had chaffed under the false equanimity of Jon Arryn's dyspeptic guidance that invariably favored the Lannisters. Here, Renly believed was an ally floundering for guidance to fight against the Lions' hegemony; if one a tad too vinegary for his liking, but a potential ally none the less. Begging Princes could not always be choosers in the Game of Thrones.

"Seven Hells! And why wasn't I riding with them?" His brother peevishly demanded. Probably for the tenth time already that morning.

A squire, daring the wide range of the King's wrath, slipped a plate in front of Renly's palate as the new Hand uselessly tried to explain his reasoning in terms of generaling a battle. Robert had a definite proclivity towards leading the van in such situ … " _ahh, a peach_ ," Renly noted the fruit placed beside a slab of pork and a thickly buttered wedge of bread upon glancing down at the welcome food. He tucked in as the squabbling continued primarily between the two old friends.

Wisely, the Old Lion stayed mostly mum in that clash. Renly decided he would have none of it. Casterly Rock had won too many skirmishes, in his opinion, since sneakily entering the Riverlands under obviously, well … most probably, false pretenses. The wily lord's unexpected easy charm, accommodating behavior, and cheeky quips was winning too many noble friends; and worse, making inroads with Robert. Had he himself not laughed heavily at several of the surprisingly salty jests and saucy limericks of Tywin's that his brother had merrily repeated during yesterday's hunt?

Gold flecked, chilly green eyes ruthlessly observed his drink sodden brother much like they had probably watched Mad Aerys for so many years. Plotting. Planning. Conspiring. Far better than too patently grasping and stupid Cersei ever could.

What if the sly bastard accompanied them all the way to King's Landing? The Lannisters were deceptive and treacherous. Appearances always equitable and just and fair seeming, at first; then hardly before one could blink they had sunk their teeth in with nary a bleat of complaint from their victim. Never to relinquish their grip. This would simply not do.

"Tell us again, Lord Tywin, what your quarrel was?" he prodded innocuously; interjecting himself into a brief lull as both his brother and the Hand paused for breath.

"What quarrel?" The Lannister hissed.

"You rode out with Ser Jaime and Cersei," Renly only ever referred to the bitch as 'Her Grace' or 'Queen' when he absolutely must, "and returned without them. I assume you quarreled. Was I wrong?" he poked. The rumor of their feline spat having reached the royal hunting party yesterday before it even returned to the Inn's grounds.

"Ser Jaime refused to give up his white cloak," the Hand explained that which Renly already knew; unhelpfully sticking his large Northern nose were Renly least desired it, between him and a hopefully heated, ill spoken response from the Old Lion.

"Well, an oath is an oath. Is that not true, Lord Eddard?" he asked guilelessly. One fewer Lannister in King's Landing was always desirable, though a true break between father and both children would greatly assist his and Loras' plans.

"Yes," ground painfully out the Hand's mouth in fair imitation of Stannis. His disgust with the Kingslayer's dishonorable part in Robert's Rebellion was no secret.

"I am sure Tyrion will give you no complaints as your official heir to Casterly Rock, Lord Tywin," Renly said, returning to his attempt to bait the lion. Seriously, who in the Westerlands would pledge fealty to the Imp. The Rains of Castamere only fall so far, surely. "A quite clever lad … when not drunk or chasing whores."

That quip elicited the first snort of amusement from the disgruntled Robert. Tyrion _was_ devilishly entertaining to carouse with; both as a purveyor of amusements and from the sheer spectacle provided of a dwarf committing so many of the Seven's sins concurrently.

"Casterly Rock is of no concern to Storm's End," the Old Lion snarled, cheeks quickly turning a shade that near matched Robert's wine besotted complexion.

"And why should it?" Renly agreed with an outward sincerity completely contrary to what he believed. He then pivoted his attention to behind his brother and raised the remnants of his small beer. "Then my congratulations to you, young Lancel," he toasted the comely boy in the shadows. One with some slight promise for the future, but with too much haughty Lannister in him. And, sadly, not inclined towards Renly's charms. "Though I fear you shan't be Robert's squire much longer."

Robert's weary eyes squinted quizzically. Next, realization slowly dawned on that bearded face. "What? Lumpy? Bwahahahahahaha," he started laughing, his dark mood temporarily alieved.

The Old Lion rose abruptly. "If your Grace will excuse me. I must see that my mount is ready should word come of Jaime or Cersei," he announced; voice barely breaking through the echoes of Robert's bombastic chortles of glee.

Cold Northern eyes stared unhappily at him; assessing Renly's open declaration of alliance against the Lannisters and the possible consequences of having temporarily driven the Old Lion off the playing board.

Renly returned that gaze with steady self-assurance. " _I know what I'm doing, Stark_ ," he told himself.

* * *

"I never suspected what a fetching lioness Myrielle would grow into," Renly probed; taking a judicious break from inspecting young Bert's preparation of his sweet mount Wavebreaker. His squire had earned praise in private later for placing the horse right where Renly wanted it among the edgy throng of gathered royalty, lords, and knights awaiting under darkening skies for news of the errant twins.

Overhearing the words clearly directed at him, Edmure paused in checking the fit of the saddle's arch against his roan's withers to search out where the feline enchantress sat primly with her matronly escort off to the inn side of the picket lines.

She smiled coyly upon too quickly noting his amorous gaze; the sly minx.

"Quite fetching," the auburn colored Trout concurred cheerily.

"I remember her as just a gangly girl of little note when old Tywin dragged her older sister Cerenna to court. Was it four years ago now? In order to troll her before me as marriage bait," Renly sighed slightly.

"Oh, did he?" Edmure queried with barely a thought behind his words; too much blood flowing away from his brain to his blooming cockstand at the sight of her.

"Why wouldn't he?" Renly asked the older, duller man in full confidence of his own desirability. "What lord, high or low, hasn't done the same?" Then he leaned over to lightly slap Edmure's shoulder in camaraderie. That got the Trout to turn his attention and gaze over to him. "Who am I to point out the obvious to the heir of Riverrun, eh?" he chuckled softly. "The Riverlands lords likely sail their nubile maids down the Red Fork past you in a monthly regatta," he laughed conspiratorially.

Despite the cover offered by his fiery red beard, something a tad sour evidently crossed Edmure's face as he joined in the laughter. "They damn near do. Damn near," he repeated, echoing his agreement.

While the betrothal alliance process expected of a Lord Paramount evidently presented a trial to Edmure, of which even King's Landing had heard gossip of his indiscriminate tasting of the Riverlands' less virtuous noble fruit; such were not actively Renly's concerns. A Stormlands' match would be most expedient. He cared only that whomever he eventually chose be comely and breedable.

"You're a lucky lord, Edmure. Myrielle has a far better temperament than her sister. Don't mistake me, Cerenna is near as juicy a peach as her cousin Cersei," he declared openly. Then, much more softly, "But, alas, also near the harridan too; much as she tried to hide it from me," he conveniently lied. Was it his fault that the Tullys, and the Starks for that matter too, kept such a slipshod presence in the Red Keep that he could spin any web he cared with no threat of discover?

More uncomfortable and contradictory looks passed over the Trout's hairy phyz. "I fear you mistake my intentions towards the Lady Myrielle, Lord Renly. We are merely … good friends."

The Prince portrayed an embarrassed, aghast look. "My apologies, Lord Edmure. I simply … well, Lord Tywin … that is … clearly I misunderstood," he lied with ease. He intentionally cleared his throat. "Have you … have you heard anything from the Eyrie of your sister, the Lady Lysa?" Renly asked, pretending to stumble for a "safer" topic of conversation.

"Only the two ravens sent by my uncle, the Blackfish," the Trout answered stiffly. "Her lord husband's passing has shocked her grievously."

Renly nodded sympathetically; as if this fact had not already been shared with Edmure before Robert ever dismounted outside the inn. "We were all saddened by Lord Jon's death. And quite concerned by Lady Lysa's departure for the Vale." He rallied his "concern" into a reassuring look. "But what better place for your nephew, my brother's namesake, to learn lordship in the bosom of his leal banners, eh? And the noble Ser Brynden to leaven the boy's upbringing with a sound dose of Tully duty and honor."

"Perhaps the Eyrie will do both well. Robyn has never been the healthiest of children. And Lysa frets over him so," Edmure announced cautiously.

Lysa Arryn, bloated, whiny, bitter, and bearing a womb as fertile as the Eyrie's rocky slopes was the very antithesis of what Renly desired from a wife. And the less thought spent on that puling, snot nosed sprog of hers the better. "It did wonders for Robert and your goodbrother, so why shouldn't it for them," he said encouragingly. "To the Eyrie!"

Other around them, taking it for a toast, let loose a ragged, "To the Eyrie!" in response; drawing all eyes towards them.

Renly slipped the wineskin off his saddle and then finding his brother through the crowd, pointed at him while shouting, "To the Eyrie!" Followed by a long draught.

The King answered the cry in kind, so then did all present. Each following with a swallow moderate or deep, as suited their individual mood. As Renly spied, the Lion imbibed only lightly.

Turning his visible attention back to his mount, the Lord of Storm's End wondered what actions the Old Lion might be contemplating to further sink his claws and teeth into the other six hides of the Realm. What were his thoughts on the betrothal of Joffery to Sansa Stark? Might he actually arrange for Myrcella to marry pretty Lancel; making Robert's squire the new heir apparent to Casterly Rock? Was sweet Myrielle merely a distraction or was he truly trying to arrange a betrothal with Edmure? Or was the silly Trout simply a blockhead in falling for the treacherous lioness?

Worse, perhaps the Lannister had come all the way across the Riverlands because he had caught wind of his and Loras' plot to replace Cersei with dear Margaery? Pycelle, though always obsequious to Renly, always spoke glowingly of Tywin's time as Hand for mad Aerys. Had the old fool sent a raven? Or Varys … who could rightly trust the Spider and his little birds? And with Jon Arryn dead, foul breath no longer coursing down Renly's neck, to whose tune did Baelish dance? Had the mockingbird sought out a new master?

All three of those minor pieces in the Game of Thrones _had_ been quite ingratiating to him the last four months, with both Robert and, praise the Seven, Stannis gone from King's Landing. As had the absence of Cersei' incessant harping and the Kingslayer's cocky, mocking mouth. All-in-all a revelation to a Prince of the blood. No need to worry about bloody red cloaks lurking everywhere. The Small Council submitting to the will of the only royal Baratheon left them. The Iron Throne had felt right beneath him when he held court for those grievances that could not await Robert's return. Sweeter than any peach.

Thought Renly hoped Loras was succeeding in persuading his father to allow Margaery to come visit the Red Keep; he craved his lover's advice on what further judicious moves he might undertake. He …

"RIDERS!"

Lightning swept through the mass. Instantly, many mounted their horses. Space magically opened between the incoming half dozen riders and Robert.

Renly surged through the mass, using his Baratheon strength, to reach Robert's side. Sweat, and strangely worry, dotted his puffy, rosy face.

"WHERE ARE THEY!?" the Old Lion roared; improperly cutting in front of his King and better to demand answers as the dusty scouts pulled up to a stop. Their stretched, dour faces portending ill news.

"We found Ser Jaime's mount," the leader of the group, some hedge knight named Grinks or Grykes said in a strained voice.

"WHERE ARE THEY, GODS DAMNIT!?" Robert furiously spewed, urging his hunter forward and pushing the Lannister aside without a thought.

"There was no sign of her Grace or Ser Jaime, my King," the scruffy good for nothing begged; clearly hiding something.

"AND!?" the enraged Stag demanded.

"And Ser Jaime's horse was dead. Slain by a crossbow bolt."

A gasp. And then silence.

"MOVE!" Robert thundered his command; spurs instantly digging brutally into his horse's flanks.

And the momentary silence broke.

Exclamations and curses and questions rained down a top each other in a jumble as the mass of men and beasts gushed forward; Renly right behind Robert.

The site of the attack came out in a confused dribble … two or three leagues east of where Lord Tywin had left them … in the shallow of the north shore of the Trident … their trail ended in the waters … not picked up a mile either side.

And through the buzz, Renly just made out the Old Lion screaming through the tumult.

"STAFFORD! STAFFORD! TAKE MY GUARDS! TAKE MY BANNERS! SCOUT THE SOUTH BANK! THEY MAY HAVE CROSSED THE RIVER!"

Instantly Red Cloaks, Golden Lions, Yellow Suns, Black Manticores, Burning Trees, and a Mountainous Dog peeled off to towards the South and the Ruby Ford.

" _Clever_ ," Renly thought.


	6. Chapter 5

**SANSA POV**

The bard entertaining poor Tommen and Myrcella, as the golden haired Baratheon siblings halfheartedly picked at plates of rashers and fried bread beneath the large crimson and lion decorated tent, sang no songs. He simply plucked sad notes on his lyre, matching the gloomy mood of those few lords and ladies gathered late in the morning to break their fasts. All openly despondent over Queen Cersei's missing elegant presence and possible horrid fate. All, that is, except for her Uncle Edmure and the very attractive Myrielle Lannister; the absent queen's cousin.

Oh, the fetching pair were both far too noble and courteous to show openly their courtly affection under such tragic circumstances, but Sansa's eye knew an ennobling passion when she spied one. As too did she know something about tragedy. She sighed, imagining the suffering that her sweet Joffrey must be under for his mother as close a kin to her own ongoing worries over crippled, unwaking Bran.

"What now?" Jeyne whispered to her conspiratorially.

"Hhhmmmn," she drawled, trying to draw her attention back to the seats she currently shared at one end of the great table with her best friend and Septa Mordane.

"You have that dreamy look again. Thinking of Joffrey?" the dark haired girl teased.

"Kindly refer to _Prince_ Joffrey by his proper title, Jeyne," their tutor and governess promptly remonstrated, but not loudly in order to avoid drawing undue attention to them.

"Yes, Septa," Jeyne agreed contritely.

Sansa hid an unlady like smile by lifting a spoon of porridge to her mouth. Then, as if to remind her that she was not alone in the desire for food, Lady lifted her snout to nudge Sansa's unoccupied hand resting in her lap. Instantly she responded; picking up a few rashers with her bare hand and slipping them under the table.

"Sansa," Septa Mordance growled low in warning from the back of her throat, as if she were the direwolf.

"Lady was hungry," she answered not at all shyly, as the long rough tongue of her sweet, well-behaved wolf licked any lingering grease and crumbs from her fingers. No justification was required or sought for Lady's presence; nor Nymeria's, that was if Arya ever bothered to appear in the dining pavilion like a gentle person – instead of likely being off playing in the river mud with that cook's boy. For thankfully, Lord Tywin had made _his_ approval of the direwolves company beneath _his_ House colors and coat of arms quite clear to Queen Cersei that first night's feast here beside the crossroads' inn.

Another sigh. She prayed every night and morning to both the Seven and the Old Gods that the elegant, kind Queen be discovered safe and sound. A quest that her father had taken each of the last four mornings with the stout King and his remaining, dashing white cloaks. Perhaps a heroic rescue of which the singers would …

"Prince Joffrey …" Jeyne began to tease her again.

"Stop, Jeyne," she whined, embarrassed by how evident her vast love for her betrothed, her golden prince, must be.

"Prince Joffrey," Septa Mordane huskily whispered and immediately began to stand.

Sansa's head pivoted like a quintain struck true by a lance. Mouth stupidly agape. There _he_ was; walking straight at her, not paying the least attention to his brother or sister. Elation grew in her bosom and butterflies in her tummy. Joffrey was as perfect as she remembered; the welt on his cheek nor the terrible visage of the smirking Hound following close behind him were barely worth noticing.

She too rose to greet him with her best curtsey and her gentlest "My prince."

"Lady Sansa, can you forgive my churlish behavior in ignoring your fair self for far too long?" he kindly asked as way of graciously apologizing to her for some trifling slight she never believed he had given.

She bobbed politely again, the fluttering within now reaching her heart. T'was true they had rarely had a moment to speak one another so far on the trip to King's Landing; the Queen being a clever and demanding mistress in properly educating her son in his coming arduous duties of kingship. And then, the dreadful … occurrence on the banks of the Trident. Sansa suddenly realized she had foolishly not yet replied. "There is nothing to forgive, my Prince. _I_ am ever at _your_ service. Kindly forgive _me_ for not seeking _you_ out."

His answering smile filled her with sunshine. "Perhaps you might care to keep me company to today. My lord grandfather has wisely guided me that as we are to be married, it would behoove us to commence learning more about each other as we walk the path together towards the Iron Throne."

Sansa found Joffrey's words poetry. Where as the Prince's shield found them worthy of a brief snigger. A brief cloud flitted across her betrothed's face. "Dog," he growled in response.

"Nothing would please me greater," Sansa gushed, trying to forestall any outburst of ill will that might spoil this perfect moment.

The cloud parted. Florian extended an arm in invitation to his Jonquil. She accepted, placing a hand on his blue wool sleeve and stepping forward on a cloud of delight.

"Allow me the honor of escorting the lady, my Prince," Septa Mordane joylessly interjected from her place standing on the opposite side of the table behind Sansa. Whilst Lady directly came out from beneath to join her mistress.

Joffrey paused, not sure whom to address first: gentle wolf or stern gaoler. Then, "Had you heard Septa, that Ser Jason Serrett left this morning for Darry?"

"The Knight Harbinger? Is the court to move on?" her tutor and governess asked with some surprise. This was news as well to Sansa. Normally, Jeyne's father, Lord Vayon, was much more adroit in his duties as steward; and, would have informed them of an imminent departure.

"On the morrow. My lord grandfather and Lord Stark agree it wisest that my father, _the king_ , have access to a rookery as the hunt for the evil varlets who've kidnapped my mother grows hotter for the miscreants," her Prince declared with both utter strength of purpose and tenderest devotion.

"Why, then, the Lady Sansa will need to arrange her chests, clothes, and possessions," the septa harrumphed in a fluster.

"Surely, that is what _servants_ are for," Joffrey dismissed the scold with gallant condescension before turning his magnificent gaze back upon Sansa. "Come Sansa," he regally commanded. "Until you return anon, your virtue will be safe with me, lady." His sword hand dropped confidently to the pommel of the blade at his waist. "Whilst we are together, no rascal or vagabond shall come between us when breath yet remains in my body," Joffrey promised romantically.

Sansa nearly swooned as she walked out of the pavilion clutching her betrothed's powerful, well shaped wrist.

* * *

The sun shone down upon her exiting the shade cast by the tent, even as two grey clad figures slipped behind them to join the horrible Hound at their backs. Regardless the dismissal of Septa Mordane, since the … dreadful occurrence, neither Sansa nor Arya went anywhere without an escort of at least a pair of Winterfell guardsmen. Alyn was quite handsome and desired to become a knight. And Varly? Well, Arya, on the other hand, was regularly stuck with Fat Tom and Jacks.

Her tall, strong, perfect prince took no notice of them; directing his attention only at her. "What would my lady care to do? We could find a game?" Joffrey suggested.

"Whatever you wish, my prince," she answered, for truthfully she cared no what they did or where they wandered; so long as they were together.

"Have a singer entertain us on the pitch as we roll bowls? Or find a quiet place and a jug of wine whilst we play at Alquerque or Fox and Geese."

That sounded, naughtily daring. Father only ever let her drink a single full cup at time. And _that_ just on feast days in front of the smallfolks from the high table in the Great Hall where she must maintain the utmost decorum. "That would be lovely."

"Mayhap Hounds and Jackals, if you prefer. Ha!" Joffrey suddenly snorted with clear amusement. "How would you like that, Dog?" he asked, raising his voice. "We could have pages dig up actual holes and then have my lady role daggers to see how far you moved. What do you think?"

"Don't wager on the jackals," her beloved's shield declared menacingly.

"Ha! T'would make …"

"Beg pardon, my Prince," Alyn rudely interrupted. "Lord Lannister appears to desire your attention."

Joffrey's smile immediately departed and his cheeks began to flush as he stopped walking and looked about for his lord grandfather. Sansa spotted the stern faced Lord of Casterly Rock gazing assiduously towards them first, and gently guided Joffrey's arm in that direction - a hundred feet away, standing in front of an older knight in Black Manticore livery and a younger one sporting a blazing sun and inverted golden pile. Not even the Old Lion was safe to walk about without escort.

Being noticed, Lord Tywin nodded silently once at Joffrey and then, with a slight smile, at Sansa herself. However, no gesture or indication was made signaling a request that they join him.

She curtseyed politely in acknowledgement of his recognition. Then, from the side of her eye as she rose back up, Sansa noted the prince nod tight lipped back at his lord grandfather. Curiously, with heat now fully in his cheeks, the previously spied welt curiously appeared vaguely hand shaped.

Joffrey abruptly resumed walking, much more quickly; guiding her off in a different direction than before. "I now find the idea of a cool breeze rushing through my hair most accommodating my lady." "Would you care to ride with me?"

"I love riding," Sansa immediately agreed without a thought; though the prince's golden curls already shone in perfection.

Her betrothed soon glanced down warwily at Lady. "Your wolf won't spook our horses, will she?"

"Lady is the most agreeable of all my family's direwolves. Fed gently from my own hand since a wee pup. She could _never_ harm you, my prince."

* * *

The next, too few, hours spent basking in Joffrey's glory were the grandest of Sansa's entire life. They had ridden west and stayed on the north bank of the Trident, as far away from where both the … dreadful occurrence had happened and where … Lord Lannister's banners had the next day discovered the slaughtered fishing hamlet. Undoubtedly where the dastardly bandits had stolen the ship used to ambush the Queen and her knightly brother. Thankfully, with lovely bird song and witty, endearing words in the air, any passing thoughts of the terrible deeds were thankfully few and far between.

Sansa dreamed of their wedding and the beautiful children she would birth for Joffrey as he galloped along beside her; regaling her with enchanting stories of King's Landing, the tourneys, the pageantry, the acts of chivalry, the elegant dress of the lords and ladies, and the sweetest throated singers and most popular songs. Joffrey himself had even entertained her with a few choice songs given with a most appealing voice, pure and full of honey.

Near mid-day, the group of them had followed a trail of smoke to a modest holdfast that rushed with pride to serve their future king and queen their choicest morsels … and wines. Only passable, as Joffrey's discerning palate proclaimed; yet he kept Sansa' spirits lifted to Seven Heavens with his artful, complementary conversation and generosity in keeping her cup full. Lady was the only witness to this wonder as they dined on the Holdfast's roof; their mortal minders ordered to keep watch from mere earth bound vantages.

To her disappointment, they eventually descended from Seven Heavens, remounted their rested horses, and began making a return; the end of what must surely be the first of many adventures by the pair.

They rode slower than before, simply meandering where paths led them between flowering fields and through green woods; a relief for her full tummy and slightly spinning head.

"What's that sound!" The scar faced brute barked, breaking the glow within which she basked.

"I hear nothing, Dog," Joffrey scoffed.

"Live steel?" Varly asked uncertainly.

Mounts were brusquely pulled to a stop. Their escorts stood up in their stirrups. Lady looked up at Sansa lovingly.

"Which way?" her prince commanded.

"Towards the river, my prince," Alyn stated.

"Aye," the Hound agreed.

"The demons dare strike again!" Joffrey blazed in a whirlwind of anger. He pulled the blade he'd told her was named _Lion's Tooth_ and jabbed spurs into his chestnut hunter. Off her valiant betrothed charged, heedless of the danger.

"Bloody fool," his shield growled, but promptly took off after him.

"Away with you, Lady Sansa," Alyn demanded, not near as impressive as Joffrey.

Bravery flooded her maidenly heart. "Protect the Prince! I am nothing," she cried, jolting her mare forward after her beloved. Lady yipped and rushed ahead of her down the mouth of the dell.

Within a furlong, Varly had her reins; reducing her pace to a simple walk. The handsomer, more knightly Alyn however had rightly continued after his future king.

Sansa gave Varly her sternest look. "We must at least discover whether Prince Joffrey requires assistant."

The guardsman bit his lip a moment as his duties warred with each other. "Very well, my lady. But slowly. And flee like Others chase your soul if I order it," he near snarled at her.

The way forward descended as it neared the river. The sound of swordplay, but less than a dozen blades, finally became distinct to her ear. Then a battle cry, which could only be brave Joffrey. And then silence. Lady lazily looped along beside her, unconcerned.

 _Tink_.

 _Tink_.

 _Tink_.

The sound of steel returned, but unhurried; desultory.

Sansa and Varly passed through a last clump of trees and came upon the oddest of sparring sessions on an open field above the banks of the Trident.

Her father's guardsman Jacks was practicing against the Lefford man-at-arms she had seen that morning escorting Lord Lannister. Fat Tom was demonstrating a sword move to some ill-dressed urchin. And … and her sister, wearing filthy leathers, was hacking away with abandon at the Black Manticore; who easily knocked aside or side stepped each wild blow, and even once smacked Arya across her backside with the flat of his blade.

Meanwhile, Joffrey and his shield were still mounted, off to the side near the shade of a giant oak; not paying the least bit of attention to the odd scene. Alyn, on the other hand, had already dismounted and was yelling encouragement and suggestions enthusiastically at Arya.

"All is well," Varly heaved with evident relief from beside her.

' _All is not well._ _Wait till father finds out_ ,' Sansa thought, utterly dismayed by her sister's worse than unlady like behavior. And completely embarrassed to have Joffrey be the one to discover it. Lady yipped and ran straight towards her beloved. "Lady, wait!" she cried, not wanting the sweet wolf to accidentally cause the prince's mount to skitter or buck. That would be the final blow to the ruination of her perfect day. She forced the mare forward after her naughty four legged sister.

She reined in beneath the canopy of the tree.

"Lady Sansa, welcome," the calm, commanding voice of Casterly Rock greeted her.

"Lord Lannister," she spluttered, surprised to find him there; sitting unconcernedly on the ground with his back against the oak, petting two direwolves who lay with their heads splayed across his legs.

"Joffrey has been telling me of the lovely day the two of you had together. I trust you found it as pleasurable as his description."

"Better, Lord Tywin."

Discerning, steely green eyes captured her blue ones; peering uncomfortably into her soul for a long moment. Then, "I believe you." A pause. "However, would you walk back to the inn with me, speaking of it?"

Sansa knew her father cared little for Lord Lannister; had he not told her to avoid Lord Tywin upon hearing of the conversation the Old Lion had initiated with her the morning after they arrived at the crossroads. But a lady simply did not say "No" to a graciously given offer from a lord, let alone the legendary Lord of Casterly Rock. She risked a glance at Joffrey, who appeared most ill at ease and refused to meet her look.

"If you are too tired?" A pause. "Tis a mere mile's pleasant stroll to the Inn."

Sansa placed a polite smile as a shield upon her face. There was something unsettling about her betrothed's lord grandfather. "Nothing would please me more, Lord Lannister."

"Gracious of you," he admitted coolly though civilly. Next his piercing vision shifted over to Varly, who had joined the little group beneath the tree. "Would Winterfell allow Casterly Rock to escort the Lady Sansa … alone."

Unhappiness again shone in the guardsman's face. Once more he bit his lip as he judged the right course to take. "Yes, milord," he answered tepidly. Then, more energetically, perhaps realizing to whom he spoke, "Of course!"

The head nodded down once slowly, a faint smile edging his lips. Next he returned to Sansa, asking, "If you don't mind?" He turned a strong, commanding hand over her direwolf's head to emphasize the intent of his question.

"Lady. Come to me, girl," Sansa immediately ordered. Slowly the wolf arose; clearly, she found nothing of concern in the lion.

"Ser Amory. Lady Arya. A moment," he called, voice carrying powerfully though he had not shouted. Then, tersely, "Be chivalrous, Joffrey. Assist your lady to dismount."

Her betrothed scrambled to obey, despite a prince outranking a lord. And gallantly, once dismounted himself, he held her reins with one hand and offered the other to help ease her descent.

"Has Nymeria behaved?" Arya asked, trotting up; clothes dirty and askew, a short tourney sword overlarge in her small hands. At her sister's approach, Lady's litter-mate hopped up in order to run excited circles about the girl

Lord Lannister was now standing too. "She did. And will you abide by our bargain?"

Instantly Sansa's complete opposite of a sister looked suspiciously at her. "I shall try," Arya begrudgingly allowed.

"And I shall hear if you cease trying," the lord tutted ominously. Arya's tongue played at the corner of her mouth in thought. Then she nodded in agreement to whatever mischief had been negotiated. "You may have this," the Old Lion allowed, reaching into his pocket and handing over a golden badge of his house's coat of arms.

Arya snatched it, bobbed quickly in what might have been a curtsey, muttered "my thanks," and ran back to the pig eyed, portly older knight with whom she had been … well, it wasn't truly sparring. Even Sansa's untrained eye could see that. Nymeria barked and followed excitedly after her wild mistress; just as much a wolf as she.

"Shall we?" the tall lord asked, nodding his head easterly; taking the first, inviting step to lead her where he desired.

"Gladly, Lord Lannister." She followed as the rules of courtesy required of a young lady. Though to be fair, the one other time the Lord of Casterly Rock had spoken in any depth with her, it had been most pleasant.

He was silent awhile, until he queried with an equally, firm politeness, "Please speak to me of where you travelled and what you saw this day, my lady."

She took a breath, but then a dull noise intruded before her lips moved.

Clip-clop.

Clip-clop.

Joffery had remounted and come after her. ' _How he must hate to be parted from me_ ,' she thought with rapture.

However, the Old Lion stopped; meaning she must too. Then, without turning his austere visage about, he declared witheringly to the air, "Joffrey, if I wished to be followed and have my conversation overheard, a scribe would be present tending me."

The shame of the verbal blow at her betrothed burned her.

"Grandfather, I swore to Lady Sansa that I would permit no harm to her until she returned to her Septa's care," her prince declared with pluck and knightly aplomb.

"And _I_ am a threat to a daughter of House Stark?" Lord Lannister asked with subdued menace.

A murmured "No" could just be heard above the renewed sound of steel striking steel.

"Then improve yourself for the day you may _actually_ need to protect the Lady Sansa. Practice sword strokes with Sandor."

Her beloved's shield snickered nastily quite clearly behind them.

"Yes, Grandfather," Joffrey agreed with a hint of sullen in his voice.

The Lord of Casterly Rock nodded his head once acknowledging the prince's acceptance of his command, then turned his closely bearded face to peer down at Sansa. Joffrey was tall; however, his grandfather soared above her even farther. "Shall we continue?" he offered and then again began moving forward without awaiting her reply.

Sansa near stumbled to keep up.

"What of interest did you note today, my lady?" he queried again.

Still discomforted by the disciplining of Joffrey, Sansa could only prattle on near senselessly. She spoke of where they had ridden, how kindly the Holdfast – she could no longer remember the house's or the small keep's name – had treated them, how strongly Joffrey had galloped his hunter – always to valiantly return to her, and of the songs he had regaled her with in his sweet alto. He never interrupted, only watching her with keen, calculating eyes.

After her words eventually ran out, Lord Lannister remained quiet a while, as if digesting them to see how foolish or clever she was.

"And what did you learn of Joffrey's character?"

"He is the greatest prince since Aemon the Dragonknight," Sansa enthused. Were it not for Lord Lannister's odd dressing down of his grandson earlier, she would have gladly rambled on with an endless litany of her betrothed's gallant qualities.

"A mighty weight to place on an untested boy of ten and two name days. Pray time will not discover you disappointed in him," the Old Lion declared calmly.

They strode on without talking for a while after that. Sansa would not claim it an amiable silence, for Tywin Lannister was a most daunting presence; equal in his own way to her father those thankfully few times she witnessed him truly act as the Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North.

When the hush became so overpowering she thought she might scream, Sansa forced her mouth open, "Is it true the King shall move on to Darry tomorrow?"

"Perhaps. The court certainly. The search for my children will soon reach as far down as Maidenpool on the south bank and Wickenden in the Vale on the north. Scouts range up the High Road on the chance t'was some far ranging band of one of the Mountain Clans. The King lacks patience. He will continue to ride somewhere and everywhere in search of Cersei."

' _As a true knight should_ ,' Sansa agreed privately, though she was unsure of just how knightly the fat King who went to war over her Aunt Lyanna remained. However, openly, to keep a converse of some sorts going, she asked, "But I thought the Queen's mount was discovered on the south bank?"

A shrug. "A ruse perhaps. Perhaps the murderers are right now a part of the royal party, laughing at House Lannister; watching as I vainly chase shadows and my own tail," he said the last part bitterly; clearly angered at the humiliation imposed upon his name.

For Sansa, a whirlwind of thoughts spun in her mind at the implication of those words. She latched on to the one she oddly thought safest to express. "Surely, you don't believe the Queen … " then she could speak such ill-fated words no farther. "Forgive me, my lord," she said swiftly, apologetically.

"What? That Cersei and Jaime are dead?" the stern lord asked bluntly, though without anger or malice.

Silence.

Lingering.

A soft sigh from the Old Lion.

More silence

"You have not asked me about your sister?" the Lord of Casterly Rock probed strangely to re-open their discourse.

"Arya?" she said with surprise. The scene she had ridden upon on the banks of the Trident _had_ been weir.

"An interesting child; undisciplined yet, but with a fire to her spirit," he described pleasantly.

Sansa would use a different list of words to describe her sister; few of them as complementary as the Old Lion's enigmatic description.

"Reminds me greatly of Cersei at the same age," he mused almost fondly.

' _Arya Underfoot? Arya Horseface? Like Cersei? The most beautiful Queen ever to grace the Seven Kingdoms?_ ' Her brain went agog at the impossible comparison.

"Cersei was more daring then than Jaime. Better with a sword. Rode a pony fiercely," he continued; staring off into the sky as his mind's eye evidently reached back to past memories. "But I was the Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the King. Such activities were neither proper nor lady-like for the daughter of Tywin Lannister; so I forbade her from it, despite her childish protests. That is why, when I came upon Lady Arya sparring against her companion with simple sticks, I ordered my guards to return with tourney blades and begin teaching them proper sword work."

The words made no sense to her, but she felt compelled to say something … anything. A neutral "hmmmmnnnn" of agreement slipped from her mouth. She did know with utter confidence that father would not approve of the encouragement to Arya's willfulness.

"If I had not prohibited her the practice of those knightly skills, perhaps she might have been able to escape." For a moment, the great lord's tone held a tinge of sadness behind that imposing visage.

Such might be … but almost assuredly wasn't … appropriate for Arya. But definitely not for Sansa. Riding was as adventurous as she could ever be. The thought of learning the skills of a knight was fine and proper for a squire, but not a lady. Besides, Joffrey would ever be there to protect her. Joffrey, his Kingsguard, and a company of the most gallant knights from across the entire realm. They would hold monthly tourneys to fight for the right to protect her once she was queen.

Still, there was something else about her sister's dealings with Lord Lannister that niggled in between her mental images of the glorious pageantry her betrothed's reign would bring. "Why did you care to offer your house's badge to Arya?"

"It was not for her, but her friend."

"The ... the …" smelly "… butcher's boy, my lord?"

"Young Mycah." A slight smile. "My father was once saved from a pack of wolves by his Master of Kennels; a smallfolk of no status and little learning, except for that of hounds and dogs. As a reward, he rose this man to knightly status and bestowed a modest holdfast upon him."

"A loyal servant who honorably did his duty to his lord," Sansa pointed out. Any of Winterfell's household would naturally do the same for her, her siblings, and her parents.

"Yes. Yet is it not wise to show both nobles and smallfolks alike that leal service is well rewarded? One can never be sure when good service is required nor assured where the good service will come from," the Old Lion cautioned her.

A doubting look must have accidentally appeared on her face.

"You have met my grandson's shield, Sandor?" Lord Lannister asked rhetorically; for how could she have not avoided the brute, especially today – though Joffrey had done his finest in keeping his "Dog" at bay. She nodded in agreement. "He is the younger son of that very same Kennel Master raised a lordling."

Sansa's eyes widened in surprise and understanding as to why the scarred beast was called "Dog" … or "Hound."

"You have seen Sandor's brother, Ser Gregor, about too. Knights and smallfolks alike name him 'The Mountain.' Would you care to hear what good service he has rendered unto my House?" the Old Lion asked ominously.

"No … no, my lord, if you please," she near begged, as the first tendril of fear took root in her stomach.

"He was the one who entered the Red Keep and slew Princess Elia and her infant babe, the prince, Aegon."

"Why? Why?" Sansa gasped in confusion at the evilness of it.

"Because Robert Baratheon desired a throne, Cersei Lannister needed a King to marry, and Ned Stark would one day have a daughter who wished nothing more than to marry a golden prince. That is why the Mycah's of the world need encouragement … nurturing; because at times the Game of Thrones requires sheer butchery, and its best that the butcher boys' of Westeros are motivated to defend your life, Sansa, rather than slaughter you as casually as pig."

Sansa's dreams shivered at the unimaginable horror of such ideas … such filthy deeds.


	7. Chapter 6

**CHARLES POV**

The air would have been quite warm for an English summer night, but Charles noted it was far from unbearable; care of a pleasant evening breeze generated by the moderating effects of the near-by, corpse-hiding Trident. Above him stretched the vast blackness of space spattered with a panoply of planets, stars, nebulae, and galaxies; maybe, he supposed, even including the Milky Way. While below, the noise from the dregs of the royal party, at last dispersing from the rump of the Farewell Feast, added a course, grounding touch to the tableau.

Alone with his thoughts, he reposed on the tiled roof of Castle Darry's most modest tower, which he had claimed as his personal domicile ten days prior. The exception to his total seclusion coming from the soft fluttering of dark wings and sporadic bursts of too human sounding cries from the cages that shared the roof with him.

"Corn."

"Corn."

"Corn."

Of third eyes, none had yet revealed themselves. He had permitted his curiosity to subtly peruse and verify this fact over multiple diurnal and nocturnal visits up to the rookery. However, of corn there was an abundance; and, thankfully, it turned out for his palate, a passable bourbon-like whiskey distilled from it by Darry's brewers.

Wines, beers, and even occasional ciders were acceptable alcoholic beverages for ordinary consumption and the regular numbing of his senses within extraordinary Westeros, but thinking, deep thinking, demanded whiskey. And while the Seven Kingdoms had a decent selection of liquors, as well as a few interesting liqueurs; alas, he had yet to discover anything truly similar to Scotch – neither single malt nor, god have mercy on his desperate soul, blended.

He paused in his on-going contemplation of the adage " _Winter is Coming_ " in order to take another sip of bourbon, neat. Of the utter absence of tobacco, the less said the better; regardless that Tywin's body did not crave the joys of fags and cigars. He savored the slow burn of the spirit slipping down his throat before re-examining whether by judicious murder he had sufficiently met his moral obligation to the ethical desert named Westeros.

 _JG "I say, Lawrence. You are a clown!"_

 _PO'T "Ah, well, we can't all be lion tamers."_

Charles snorted lightly at the irony of the snippet of dialogue that flitted unbidden through his mind. The thought of a "desert" must have triggered the association. Except, here, he was a figurative lion, infused with all the terrible power that one man could accrue in a cruel, feudal society; far from the spot faced teenager who had spent bob after bob at the cinema in order to memorize every beautiful frame and glorious line of Lean's masterpiece.

He let the brief surge of nostalgia fade and returned to pondering the wisdom of turning his back on the mad, brutal lot of them before the Apocalypse broke. Richer than Croesus and mightier than Priam; who would stop the Old Lion, 'broken' by the deaths of his 'children,' from simply sailing far away with a pile of his shitted gold? Minus whatever would ensure Lorch and Clegane's permanent silence.

A decade younger than his own, the body he wore was surprisingly hale and vigorous for surviving battles, disease, and medieval NHS. Plenty of years left for him to explore actual exotic new locales, instead of riding a damned horse across the much too Midlands seeming Seven Kingdoms. Time to drink and shag himself to an enthusiastic end before the ice sheet reached whichever tropical paradise full of topless fitbirds he finally dropped anchor.

"No," Charles muttered firmly to himself. And not for the first time.

He could not forget the exhilaration. Nor forego it. Despite the danger – nay, because of the danger – he had not felt so vital in decades. Confrontations not walked through first in readings. Life or death sequences not pre-determined by the script; or, generated on computers. Dialogue not handed to him on a page to memorize. Survival depended on his own cleverness, gravitas, and daring. An entire world awaited him to persuade it, to manipulate it, to tear it apart, and to rebuild it. He would remain; and, in the process, inevitably add detritus rent from mortal flesh and bone to the landscape.

Another sip of bourbon – to seal an unspoken pledge to only accept the truth of himself. To acknowledge the nature of his new character; whether it had abided in him always or been forced upon him by extraordinary circumstances.

More cries erupted from below, where lusty, frustrated drunkards who lacked the King's privilege of both lodging in the Plowman's Keep and sewing some willing, or not, Darry wench's field with his prolific seed. Perhaps another black haired bastard would be born in nine months; yet again revealing the lie of blonde headed Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen.

" _Would it have killed you, Cersei, to have given Robert just one black haired child?_ " He had already known the answer when he confronted the twins. The true question was how many others must perish because of her selfish stupidity. Charles had no intention of being included in that number. Thus, to avoid the possibility of such a disaster, as well as to keep his lofty status untainted, the new Lord of Casterly Rock would pay any price to forestall a public revelation.

The death of the Queen, and perhaps the Kingslayer too, would engender useful sympathy and useful suspicion. And, more importantly, no one left alive to foolishly blurt out the truth or have it tortured from them. However, it might embolden Stannis Baratheon to return to King's Landing to lay the claim of incest and bastardy before Eddard Stark. Unless the man's pique at being passed over as Hand kept him stewing with resentment in Dragonstone; regardless of what visions from the flames the witch whispered of to him.

Charles hope lay in simple petty human nature delaying the moment of clarity until after he rendered the situation safely moot. A thin support to buttress his future plans upon, admittedly. Thankfully, the speedy demise of any one of his 'grandchildren' would splendidly aid the narrative with his not yet ally. Joffrey was the utter cunt he had been portrayed on the show. Tommen or Myrcella … well, he preferred not thinking about that as a necessity.

* * *

" _Stay away from my children," the Stark had demanded bluntly; exuding as commanding and natural an authoritative presence as Charles had ever seen played at the RSC or elsewhere._

" _Then who shall protect them? You, Lord Eddard? You spend each day squiring for a king who plays at being a knight. And when you at last reach the Red Keep, while you rule in Robert's name, will Septa Mordane shield the Lady Sansa with her sanctimony?" he mocked lightly, despite having seen for himself the Winterfell swords assigned to follow the chits. Then, more agreeably, Charles held up the spare glass he had kept beside him all evening in anticipation of this clash. "Wine?"_

" _Damn your wine, Lannister. My guardsmen will see to Sansa, and Arya, when duty calls me elsewhere," the Northman logically countered._

" _Ahh, Arya; a most spirited child. I approve. Alas, the small sword seemed too heavy for her. Perhaps you might find some itinerant bravo in King's Landing who could teach her the water dance. Then you might have less cause to worry when Lyanna Stark's niece inevitably slips away from the Northern eyes watching her in the twisting paths of the Red Keep."_

" _You have crossed the pale, Lannister; no matter your grandson – a Baratheon – is engaged to my daughter. Do not make of me an open enemy. I shall not warn you again," the direwolf growled starkly._

" _As opposed to becoming, being, an undeclared enemy?" Charles answered calmly, confidently; then shook his head in the negative. "No, you mistake me, Lord Eddard; for I find the circumstances driving our imminent, open feud too convenient."_

 _Cold, northern grey eyes squinted even darker in the tent's dim candle light. "What circumstances?" he challenged brusquely, not bothering to deny the approaching vendetta between their two houses._

 _Charles waited a moment, matching the icy glare with his own equally cool one, before starting on his carefully crafted list of points. "First, Jon Arryn dies. Though a great man and lord, he was elderly. His passing should surprise no one. Should." He repeated, letting the emphasized word linger as he watched for the response to the bait._

 _The Stark blinked once in surprise before automatically reverting his face to its normal frozen look._

" _I would not be surprised if some anonymous missif were secretly delivered to Winterfell prior to the king's arrival," he promptly continued. "Carrying some spurious claim that insidious House Lannister somehow quickened the Hands journey with the Stranger. Am I wrong?" he asked, having purposefully hedged the supposition with sufficient inaccurate trivialities that honorable Eddard Stark could safely refute it if he so desired._

" _You would be," the Stark replied slowly; mind perhaps mulling over the offered tidbit._

 _Charles shrugged slightly. "No matter. Jon Arryn's death fairly predictably brought the king, as well as my children and grandchildren, to Winterfell and his truest friend." He then raised his glass in salute and took a mouthful of Arbor Gold. "Once there, you are foreseeably raised to be his Hand; and, a betrothal is made, at long last linking House Stark with House Baratheon by marriage. Whether you realize it or not, that makes you a threat to many jealous and envious lords in King's Landing."_

" _Such as House Lannister," the clueless lord accused._

" _Undoubtedly," Charles agreed, not bothering to counter with the debt Casterly Rock held over the Iron Throne. "But what happened before the King and his Hand depart south? Your son Bran unfortunately falls … or is pushed," he goaded._

" _What … do … you … know," the wolf growled in deadly earnest, hackles raised, leaking the scent of violence into the air._

" _I know nothing, Eddard Stark," he replied, not permitting his eyes to flinch away from the man who was more than capable of and willing to kill him. "But I, at least, am familiar with how the Game of Thrones is played, so I must ponder your son's near death: coincidence or ploy or message? Ploy, I believe, as revealed through the last and worst of the current set of happenstances: the murders of Jaime and Cersei," he declared as dangerously as he could muster._

 _The two lords stared silently at each other: wolf and lion. The honorable wolf unsurprisingly proved more noble than the infamous lion. "Her Grace and Ser Jaime may return," he at last uncomfortably allowed._

" _My children are dead," Charles declared with grim finality. "And I shall pay my debt. But make no mistake, Lord Eddard, monumental events as these do not happen at random. However, I am not such a fool as to seek repayment where none is warranted; no matter the terrible lengths being taken to make House Lannister and House Stark suspect each other in these tragedies."_

" _I did not …"_

 _Charles slammed his hand angrily down upon the table before him. "Of course you did not! Otherwise you would already be dead!" the Lion roared. Immediately after, he quickly exaggerated regaining control of himself. "Have you listened to nothing I have said?" he hissed._

 _Again, the mismatched pair glared uneasily, fiercely at each other._

" _To what end?" the Stark muttered darkly; at last beginning to think along the lines Charles wished him too._

" _To whose gain?" he countered after a brief pause._

" _A new Hand. A new Queen."_

" _Perhaps. Or a villain who would gain such advantage from a new Hand, a new Queen, or a broken realm as to dare perpetrate such madness."_

 _The grey eyes hinted at a slight thaw as the mind behind them calculated. "You wish Varys and Lord Baelish dead." Clearly, Charles' incentive offered at their first private meeting had not been forgotten._

" _Wished for your sake, as Hand; to clear the mountains and heavy horse that would impede your movement on the Cyvasse board. Might one or the other be involved in the plot?" He shrugged, then continued on with other bait. "Or Dorne. The Martells have long memories. Perhaps the Tyrells seek entrance back into the game. Ser Loras is rumored to be more than Lord Renly's former squire. Both houses have nubile daughters of marriageable age. And both houses could gain much if the Direwolf and the Lion mauled each other."_

" _Or you still seek to play me in hopes of becoming Hand again should I fail."_

 _The two locked eyes again in a battle of wills. Not relinquishing his stare, Charles pulled a parchment out of his travelling desk and pushed it towards his rival. "Here is the name of every noble, knight, and smallfolk – man and woman – who travelled with me from Casterly Rock to Riverrun to here. I know not who best to get similar lists for from your goodbrother or Lord Renly. Though, I imagine the Master of the Horse should be able to provide it for the royal party."_

 _The Lord of Wintefell would not yield either; though, he did pick up the scroll. "Ser Lomas? Why?"_

" _To investigate who amongst them might be hidden agents in the conspiracy against us."_

 _The Stark nodded slowly, unable to hide the formation of a scowl as he digested the unsavory suggestion. Then, a wintry smile. "And if the Estermonts are involved in your 'too convenient circumstances'?"_

" _Then kindly don't act surprised when you wake one night to discover tis Ser Lomas throwing you out the highest window in the Tower of the Hand."_

" _Ha," the Lord of Winterfell grunted in slim amusement; then, after a moment, queried speculatively "And do you not desire such a list from me, Lord Lannister?"_

 _Charles's smiled condescendingly. "I have no doubt you can recite the names of the great grandparents of even the least significant of the servants in your train, Lord Eddard. One of the reassurances of your living in ice bound, Gods forsaken Winterfell, any secret spy would had to have travelled north and joined your household in the days of Brynden Rivers."_

* * *

"Corn."

"Corn."

"Corn."

The renewed call of the ravens pulled him back from the memory. He opened his eyes to discern what had aroused them again; a presence, self-illuminated against the darkness, looming in the entrance arch to the roof.

Charles forced himself to remain relaxed, though he could not discern the face. His Whisperer had identified the likely spies of his enemies who were present; and, none seemed the pointlessly heroic sort to attempt to fight through the Westerlanders protecting him. However, it would greatly aid him and his conspiracy should one foolishly try. The idea of arranging a bribe for just such a crack at him had crossed his mind more than once. The same with Lord Eddard and his kin.

"Your pardon, my lord. All is in readiness for the night. The bed chamber awaits your pleasure," his privy groom's voice cut through the gloom about Charles.

"Dismiss the pages, Ser Aeron. I intend to remain yet awhile."

"Very well, my lord." A brief, polite pause. "I brought a candle. Lord Raymun is rather sparse with the torches he a lots his maester's quarters," he sniffed lightly, subtly expressing his displeasure at House Darry insufficient efforts to see to the Lord of Casterly Rock's living quarters and needs; while trying not to suggest his lord being so clumsy as to likely stumble in the dark when going to bed.

"Thoughtful," he murmured neutrally; not bothering to point out that Raymun Darry had gone a thousand gold dragons into debt hosting the royal party for the last eleven days and ten nights. And so far only received the favor of a three year royal monopoly on the import of peppercorn and cloves through Maidenpool for it.

He reached up from his repose to accept the pewter handle of the candleholder at Aeron's approach, saying nothing more, as befitted the condescension of a great lord.

"I shall remain below should you require anything," the man, a distant Lanny cousin, declared, excusing himself.

Charles simply leaned back and closed his eyes in response. When he did at last descend, the modest knight would be alert at his station beside the bedroom door; whilst the pages would certainly already be on their pallets, eyes closed, but refusing slumber until their lord formally withdrew for the night.

There was little, in fact, privy about life as the Lord of Casterly Rock; part of the reason he enjoyed coming to the rookery roof. Pages to dress him and undress him. A different sets of Pages to bring him food and take away his empty plates. A Page dedicated solely to bringing him libations. Pages to run errands for him. Pages even to attend him when he shit. A Maester Physician to inspect his shit should he feel ill. A Septon to see to the health of his soul. An Usher to manage his wardrobe. An Usher to watch over the gold of his purse. An Usher to supervise the Pages. The Privy Groom to manage the ushers, as well as to ensure all his personal needs were both anticipated and met; and, most importantly, to control access to his bedchamber and any other so called "private" space he might be in. That litany did not even include the Vice Steward who supervised all of House Lannister's public visible servants during his extended journey away from the Rock.

Pampered and famous as he had become the last few decades, Charles, never the less, found the lordly routine, with its accompanying utter lack of privacy, ridiculous, tedious, and suffocating. Worse, he had made far too many social faux pas before his social inferiors the first weeks wearing Tywin's skin. Departing Casterly Rock, with the subsequent reduction in entourage and a blissful lack of suspicious Kevan, had eased his worries only slightly; until serendipity struck.

Regardless, his servants and entourage all undoubtedly knew some vast, inexplicable change had overcome their liege. And that various clever, possibly dangerous, plans were afoot. They were neither blind nor deaf; at the very least, noting whom he spoke with and who went hastily in response to his lordly commands. They would gossip among each other, or overhear other's gossip and do the math in their heads. But mention any of this to him directly? Never.

He uncomfortable knew from the very beginning of his plotting that a large number of those traveling with him would have to die to insure his secret remained just that, a secret. It had niggled at his conscience. He was no monster. The Game of Thrones was. Regardless that none of this, none of them, were likely even real. Providence, however, had assuaged him of this particular concern in true Westerosi fashion: " _Of my banner lords, their loyalty ultimately rests on their fear of retribution. Of those pledged direct service to Casterly Rock – their wives, their parents, their children, aunts, uncles, cousins – they all live in Casterly Rock or Lannisport. Each one knows exactly how far the retribution for treason would fall._ "

Which allowed him to focus on who absolutely must die, and immediately: Varys and Littlefinger. For them, as there had been with Cersei and Jaime, he held no moral qualm at arranging their deaths; even if he did not personally hold the gun. Besides, in the anxious wait for whether Lorch and Clegane would return successfully, he had giddily discovered that scene from Lawrence's return as frighteningly accurate:

 _PO'T "I killed two people, I mean two Arabs. One was a boy. That was yesterday. I led him into quicksand. The other was a man. That was before Aqaba anyway. I had to execute him with my pistol. There was something about it I didn't like."_

 _JH "Well naturally."_

 _PO'T No, something else."_

 _JH "I see. Well that's all right. Let it be a warning."_

 _PO'T "No, something else."_

 _JH "What, then?"_

 _PO'T "No, something else – I enjoyed it."_

Charles smiled grimly in the veiling dark, acknowledging once more that surprising self-revelation, before returning to his contemplations.

The problem with "immediately" lay with Eddard Stark and the odd penchant of the Northman for Andal knightly honor - a lack of sufficient ruthlessness. As he remained in Darry to assist with the search to 'discover' his 'children's' bodies after the Royal Party left on the morrow; would the Hand, upon arriving in King's Landing, quickly eliminate the two greatest threats to … himself … and everything else?

Ten days to two weeks for King and Hand to travel south. This time at the end of the journey there would be no ad hoc Small Council meeting and demand for a tourney. Not yet, at least. Littlefinger would need to find a different way to draw Stark out of the Red Keep to reveal Lady Catelyn's unexpected presence in one of his whorehouses. What would she make of her dear childhood friend with all that extra time spent with him in his brothel, no matter how high class it be? What would his desires and possible lust make of her? What different actions might he take once news of the twins' disappearance reached him?

Then, an allowance of up to another week would likely be needed for the naïve Hand to make the desired moves, or not, against the Spider and the Mockingbird. It would take ten days for a couple of discretely placed henchmen to ride hard with the news, one way or the other. The chances of a raven slipping surreptitiously out to Darry describing the need for new members on the Small Council were slim. Afterward, one way or the other, Charles must go to King's Landing; either, to see to the deeds himself, or to consolidate his position in the resulting chaos.

The worst outcome would be Stark doing nothing other than alerting Baelish and Varys that the Lion of Casterly Rock wanted them dead – and was willing to pay absurd amounts of lucre to see it done. He hoped he had built up enough of a sense of conspiracy within the Northman that he would not so foolishly wag his tongue. But … this was the father of the hapless Sansa. Could all the blame truly be lain at Catelyn Tully's feet?

He sighed, not reveling the experience to come.

Necessity therefore required the planning for contingencies. He needed to evaluate the best options for stealthily assassinating Baelish and Varys in the crowded Red Keep when they would be expecting such attempts; while launching their own furtive daggers and poisons at him. Some problems were not best solved by Messrs. Mountain and Manticore. But who in King's Landing might he rely upon?

Charles once again attempted to seek guidance for what credible avenues were available to the Lord of Casterly Rock. He lifted the candle Aeron provided him; letting the flame tickle the palm of the other hand. He barely flinched at the discomfort as his mind began descending into the pit.

* * *

Robert did not depart the Plowman's Keep early. Most everyone else awaited, drawn up outside Darry's modest walls, at his leisure. Though segregated by Kingdom: Charles with his Westerlanders, the North, Renly and his contingent of mostly Stormlanders, Edmure and his Riverlanders, and the original royal party minus a wheelhouse – his 'grandchildren' would now all ride.

Word drifting through the arrayed crowd gathered outside Darry's modest walls was his Grace had enjoyed the niece of Lord Raymun who was married to a hedge knight so much the previous night that he was enjoying her again upon awaking ... and more than once. The King's heartfelt despondence over the missing queen knew no end; nor, apparently, a beginning.

Never-the-less, Charles envied Robert Baratheon his lechery. He had no intention of remaining chaste; regardless his skin's vow to the long dead Joanna. Oh, the vow had meaning. At Casterly Rock, each night, he had awaited some sign from his attendants at bedtime whether he might desire some companionship for the night. But nary a hint; so he had not inquired. Nor had he so far the entire journey; though many a feast he had found himself surrounded by bevies of ripe pomegranates – sorely tempted by both ennobled and smallfolks teats alike.

However, the vow had significant meaning to others understanding of the Lord of Casterly Rock. Thus, the pledge could not be broken lightly. But break it he certainly intended to; only, under a believable pretense. Thankfully, the honey to drip around the King, upon his return to the Red Keep, would soon grow copiously to include the sweetest, youngest untouched sugar in the entire realm.

Any lord, or mere knight, with a maiden, nubile daughter would damn proprieties so that his sweetling might be the first to catch the lusty eye of the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Charles intended to give the realm a reason for even the most modest and reluctant among the nobility to have no cause for worry on that account. And in doing so, he would seize the key to unlock the chains imprisoning his lust; suckling from his fair share of the collected honeycombs.

The Stark rode out of the gate. Perhaps the King's lard ass was finally moving. The Hand headed for the contingent of his Northmen. Charles noted that the Lady Sansa stood out with her brilliant auburn hair and vibrant dress. Arya, however, was only noticeable thanks to the growing direwolf by her side. He spurred his horse out of his place in line to intercept the Hand before he reached his family. In the interests of diplomacy and conspiracy, Charles had since abided by the demand that he " _Stay away from my children._ "

He was ahorse – as were his chief banners, despite not leaving for King's Landing himself, because of the need to maintain his gravitas. It would not do for him to be seen standing in the dust to bid the already overlarge Robert adieu, while the giant loomed even further over him from the back of a mount. For that same reason, Edmure was also mounted, despite being pledged to remain in Darry to officially oversee the continuing search. The importance of visual imagery in framing a story was at least one trick of the high nobility he did not need explained to him.

Lord Eddard slowed reluctantly at his approach that threatened to cut him off.

"His Grace stirs?" he opened with light mockery.

"His Grace does as his Grace wills, Lord Lannister," Lord Eddard answered coolly.

"And the Hand of the King? Does he do as he pleases?"

"What the King dreams, the Hand builds."

"I believe I've heard such. And a coarser description too."

The Stark offered what passed on the Northman's face as a fond smile. "Of which Robert spoke when he first asked me to come to King's Landing."

"But what does a Hand do when, after the King eats, he discovers the royal bowels constipated? Wait to see if his Grace ever shits? Or force a purging draught down the majestic throat, whether his King wishes it or not?" Charles poked at the wolf.

The small smile soured quickly. "Are lords Baelish and Varys such blockages?" the Stark guessed sternly, hitting too close to the mark.

"They are but dust in the wind. A eunuch and a brothel owner," he scoffed superiorly. "My test with them is to simply judge whether you, Lord Eddard, have the mettle to succeed as Hand; for which my offer still stands, if you have the ruthlessness for it," Charles obfuscated. Sadly, it seemed, he had played his first move with the Lord of Winterfell too aggressively; tainting all that came after. "No, the obstructions you must worry about are Robert's pride, wrath, lust, gluttony, and sloth. At least his Grace lacks greed and envy. Aerys held each of the Seven's mortal sins dear," he sniffed.

Eddard Stark eyed him warily. Then, "You will send word if there is news of her Grace?" he asked, using such an obligatory question to signal the end of their converse.

"Of course," he replied tersely.

"Lord Lannister," he dismissed him frigidly, picking up the pace of his horse.

There were several verbal cuts and pleas that he wished to make at the frustrating man, but they all sounded too desperate. "Lord Stark," he answered instead, tugging on the reins to return his horse to the safety of his banners.

* * *

Ser Barristan led the procession out of Castle Darry. The Lord Commander nodded respectfully at Charles as he passed.

"Ho, Tywin! Find me my Queen!" The King bellowed as he rode past. At least the oaf did not appear jolly about the situation. But neither did he seem stricken. Thus went Westeros future.

Joffrey purposefully stared at the flanking side of the honor line; refusing to meet his 'grandfather's' unforgiving gaze.

Myrcella and Tommen waved happily at Charles as they shouted their goodbyes, no more concerned that if they were heading off to a grand tourney. He had witnessed them cry more than once for their mother; however, the true reality of the situation had likely not sunk in yet on the immature minds of the eight and seven year olds.

Nor the danger.

Charles stifled a sigh. He would make no promises as to their future. But … while to lose one's 'children' was a tragedy, to next then lose one's 'grandchildren' would look careless. He would do what he could.

The gathered royal contingency pulled out first behind the King's immediate party. Then the Stormlanders. And then the Northmen. However, both Renly and the Stark soon afterward galloped forward from their banners to join Robert. Which left only the Westerlanders and the Riverlanders in the honor line.

The haze created by so many hoofs beating on the rough earthen thoroughfare that lead from the Castle grounds to the Kingsroad still hung heavy in the air when Edmure broke from his to trot over towards Charles.

"Lord Tywin." Then, "Lord Lefford. Ser Stafford. Ser Daven. Lady Myrielle," he cheerily recognized, according to order of precedent, those gathered closest about the Lord of Casterly Rock.

"Lord Edmure," he replied first, as was expected, before the others echoed his acknowledgement. "Another pleasant Riverland's day to sit about awaiting the arrival of unpleasant news."

The half-smile on his handsome Tully face faltered. "Yes. Uhm … rather, I fear, Lord Tywin," the youth stumbled.

"Any word on unusual movements of the Mountain Clans from your sister, the Lady Lysa, in the Eyrie? Or your Uncle, Ser Brynden, at the Bloody Gate?" he asked, maintaining the steely, efficient pretense of a noble father searching for his "lost children."

"Ahhh, not that I am aware. Unless a raven returned?" he asked with some confusion, knowing that Tywin's lodgings were those of the Maester in the tower with rookery; and, thus would have heard any such news first.

"The Vale's silence to the King's inquiries has been … deafening," he quipped.

Edmure cleared his throat. "I am sure Lord Jon's death has shaken her quite severely," he excused his sister.

"Shaken her all the way back to the Eyrie, I was surprised to learn. Though I suppose no better place for young Lord Robert to receive the submission of his Banner Lords." He paused in his speech to watch Edmure's reaction … a darting of the eyes and a nod of his head in agreement. "And soon enough the Lady Lysa will experience joys similar to that which regularly assail you, Lord Edmure?"

"What might those be, Lord Tywin?"

"Every eligible noble - young, old, or ugly - swanning about in hopes of a betrothal and becoming Regent of Vale. Though I hope the ones that flutter about you are far more attractive, and feminine, than what the Lady Lysa will experience."

Ser Stafford and Ser Daven snickered softly at the jape.

While Edmure's initial response was a flush in his cheeks to match the red of his auburn beard. Followed by a throat clearing. And, at last, "If I might have a private word with you, Lord Tywin."

Charles looked commandingly left and right; not needing to say a word. Leo Lefford nodded curtly and promptly tugged on the reins of his horse. Stafford and Daven, however, moved slower; knowing smiles on their faces. And Myrielle? She blushed neigh as much as Edmure as she withdrew.

When alone, Edmure opened his mouth to say sheepishly, "My lord, I realize this is not an auspicious time to make a request. But, I fear I played my mummer's part too convincingly. Do I have your permission to ask Ser Stafford for a betrothal to the fair Myrielle?"

Charles stared at him, attempting to hide his disbelief ... and his amusement. Who knew where the ripples from this might impact? Did he even desire the alliance such a marriage implied? It would certainly twit the wolf to his face, as well as raise his hackles. Though, for good or ill? And the rest of the villainous lot in King's Landing? What future plays on the board would they project him as intending to make by it? At least it lent an air of credence to the open reason for his initial journey to the Riverlands should any wish to scrutinize it later.

"Lord Tywin?" Edmure asked anxiously at the elongated silence.

"Did you mention your desire to your goodbrother?"

"No. He is the Lord of Winterfell, not Riverrun," he answered firmly.

"Yet, House Tully has been joined a generation to both House Stark and House Arryn. The problem, Lord Edmure, is that when every house has a marital alliance with each other; then, no house has a marital alliance," he pointed out.

Edmure's face began to look crestfallen. "But, I looo …"

"Tch-tch-tch," Charles cut in quickly to silence him, not wanting the other to say anything that might later cause him shame. "I make no refusal to the offer, Lord Edmure; merely an observation. Have you made a formal declaration of your intent to either the Lady Myrielle or her father? They looked quite pleased with themselves a moment a go," he pointed out.

"No, not officially; though my desire has become plain to them," the man half Charles age and thrice as full of rash enthusiasms stated.

"Good. Then no shame will befall them or you should the match be rejected."

"My lord?" he asked quizzically.

"Not by me, Edmure," he intoned again; this time gentler, dropping the use of the other's noble title. Love was grand and should not be mocked; though it be a fool's errand where the Game of Thrones was concerned. "Nor by my rock headed goodbrother, Stafford. My concern is with your gaining Lord Hoster's approval. Have you it?"

"No," the other ruefully admitted.

"Then leave on the morrow for Riverrun. Convince your lord father of the merits of a union between our houses. And by the time you ride, a parchment bearing my seal will reveal the value of the dowry that Casterly Rock places on Myrielle." And more importantly Riverrun, Charles did not say aloud.

An uncomfortable look spasmed across Edmure's face. "But what of the search for the Queen and Ser Jaime? His Grace assumed that I, as my father's deputy, would continue providing the full support of the Riverlands?"

"Then leave a writ for Lord Raymun to take on your duties," Charles said reasonable, before dropping his voice to its intimidating best. "But none shall come between me and mine. A Lannister pays his debts."

* * *

A parchment, blank other than the two words " _Hoster Tully_ " written at the top, sat on the maester's table before Charles. He had been regarding it for near a half hour as he culled his memory for what would make the most effective dowry contract. Gold was the easy, expected ploy. But too much and touchy Andal pride would leave the Tullys thinking themselves mere whores to be bought. Yet not enough, and the opposite problem presented by pride would rear its stubborn head.

He snickered, wondering what they would make of a fill in the blank dowry. Probably nothing good.

Catelyn and Lysa Tully's dowries had been thousands of Riverlands' swords to fight in the rebellion against the Targaryens. But what had been the original dowry promised to Brandon Stark? Or the Hightowers to Mace Tyrell? Or the Martells to Prince Rhaegar? Or any other dowry between one of the Seven Kingdoms to another of the Seven Kingdoms over the last hundred years?

Kevan would have known. And in the asking of that, or a thousand other common things, Charles would have revealed something to be irrevocably, disturbingly different about Tywin. Which was part of the reason for his quick departure from Casterly Rock.

For a moment, he seriously considered requesting the Darry Maester's presence. Followed by the idea of perusing through the man's books and scrolls in the vain hope of discovering an appropriate analogy for the proper price for noble, wifely chattel.

 _HF "Ooooh! It damn well hurts."_

 _PO'T "Doesn't it though."_

 _HF "Well, what's the trick then?"_

 _PO'T "The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts."_

"Yes, the trick _is_ not minding that it hurts," Charles agreed. He reached across the table to pick up the lit candle intended to provide the wax into which he would impress the lion sigil of his ring.

Once more he felt it necessary to tickle the bottom of a palm with the flame.

He closed his eyes as hot discomfort spread across his flesh.

The pain strangely helped him focus.

The blackness remained immutable.

Charles raised the candle higher.

A whiff of burning …

The darkness swirled and then opened up before him, revealing the stairs.

There had been no stairs at first, only a gaping hole to the pit.

Over time, as he returned repeatedly to the abyss full of swirling mists, fragmented visions, and shades, he discovered he could slowly mold the shadowy parts; building structures that conformed, if eerily, to a more structured seeming reality.

His initial constructs had been the stairs and a body; to aid his search for the inexplicable anger that had initially only welled up in his dreams. Then later, much more frighteningly, late at night; while still conscious.

Imaginary legs propelled him down the circular stone steps built into the now cobblestone lined wall.

Around and around and around.

Snatches of dialog whispered past his ears; a few voices familiar.

Pictures formed above and below him, swooped and twirled; then disappeared. A smattering of the imagines he recognized.

He reached the bottom to greet the portcullis he had installed.

He opened the lock with a key he shaped out of the darkness right then. The steel bars rose at his command to reveal a tunnel.

He concentrated.

Torches projecting from sconces erupted into flame, illuminating the gloom. Keeping the mist and shades at bay.

He strode forward until coming upon a thick door.

This too he unlocked. He stepped inside the Dungeon cell.

The glowing figure wrapped in black chains had the semblance of a man, this time. The semblance of the very skin Charles now wore.

"Tywin," he greeted the apparition.

"Mummer," the malevolent spirit hissed scornfully at him.

"Will you freely tell me what I need to know this time?"

Gold flecked green eyes glaring daggers at him the only response to the question.

"Or is it a mistake to try and wean Riverrun from the Starks' influence?"

Silence.

The buried remnants of Tywin Lannister's psyche still attached to the living body could see what he saw and hear what he heard; however, of Charles' thoughts, nothing.

Whatever limited cooperation Tywin had begrudgingly provided upon his discovery by Charles, that had ended the night he had informed Clegane and Lorch of the vileness expected them. _That_ sin too great no matter the revelation of the twins' incest.

They stared at each other awhile. No words passing between. Threats were of little use against the resolute, fierce disposition of the Lion.

There would be pain.

For both of them.

But one was dominant and the other in chains.

His arms and hands, constructed of darkness, reached out to grasp what light still shone from within the chained prisoner.

Discomfort slowly built to misery and then a skull throbbing agony as his fingers extended as tendrils to pierce through the layers of fragmented memories left the Old Lion; searching brutally through the resistance for what was necessary.

The trick was not minding.

Neither relented in either the attack or the defense.

Eventually two separate, echoing screams swirled together out of the prison cell, down the corridor and out into the abyss.


	8. Chapter 7

**Tyrion POV**

"Inform the captain I shall join him on the poop deck shortly," Tyrion chuckled at the rag dressed boy who was hardly bigger than one of the moderate sized rats that infested the ship and likely helped feed the crew.

"Aye-aye, milord," the urchin murmured and ran off to relay the message.

Multiple sources lay behind his good humor. First, over the near three weeks spent aboard the _Sea Lion_ , he had reacquainted himself the joyous absurdity of sea jargon. And, in particular, as a former Keeper of the Drains, he found that the childish wit behind calling any place besides the jakes a 'poop deck' knew no bounds.

Second, he had already heard Master Gerold bawl the message to the slight runner from the afore said poop deck, for it was the roof of the great cabin which Tyrion, by right of being – for the nonce – Tywin Lannister's publicly acknowledged son, had appropriated from that very captain the moment the winch ignobly hoisted his small self aboard.

And, lastly, the reason requiring his presence was that Casterly Rock had at last been spotted by whichever poor soul had the duty of climbing up to the crow's nest. Thus, the seemingly interminable journey through weather both fair and foul from frigid Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, past temperamental ironborn to the balmier Westerlands was finally, thankfully, barring a disaster of epic House Baratheon proportions, reaching its conclusion.

"Wine, women, and song tonight, Jyck, Morrec. And not necessarily in that order," Tyrion said cheerfully before lifting up his hot rum toddy and tapping the heels of the goblet to greedily swallow the last warming, spicy drop. "Be sure my chests and bags are packed and ready to disembark right after me," he commanded, hopping off the chair to make for the door.

"Of course, my lord." "Right quick, milord." His servant and his personal bodyguard desultorily mumbled together back at him. They were competent enough, but after five months enforced contact his tolerance of them had worn thin.

' _And some intelligent conversation would not be a miss either_ ,' he decided. The last dose of that had been the departure feast that Lord Commander Mormont had quickly organized for him upon Maester Aemon's receipt of father's raven.

The maddeningly curious, terse missif sat tucked safely in the pocket of his jerkin as he exaggerated his waddling gait to safely account for the slowly tilting floor and the intimidatingly steep stairs that led out of the choking miasma of unwashed bodies and pea soup farts that hung perpetually below decks to the saltier, fresher sea air above.

 _Tyrion, The time has come to set your future as either a man or a wastrel. Make proper haste for Westwatch-by-the-Bridge where warships will return you to Casterly Rock. Assure the Lord Commander that House Lannister shall pay its debt to the Night's Watch in seeing my son safely there. – Lord Tywin Lannister._

The arse-breaking journey made in the shadow of the Wall across the uncultivated, barren Gift had been as unpleasant as expected. But not near as horrible as the possible ominous punishments awaiting that his imagination plagued him with those dozen days. He had carried the tiny parchment with him the entire time; a token Tyrion could visibly show, to whom or why it did not matter, that he – a dwarf – was acknowledged as "son."

And the mean son of a bitch had not stinted on his largesse. Gold, of course, spices, weapons, armor, bars of iron, clothing, blankets, casks of salt, stringent soaps, and piles of a hundred sundries to aid and ease the harsh lives of the rapists, thieves, and murders who constituted the vast majority of the Black Brothers. A veritable treasure trove of a ransom that both Ser Denys and Maester Mullin effusively gushed over with praise for Lord Lannister when his "son" arrived at the temporarily manned castle at the end of the Wall; fifteen miles past the Shadow Tower.

Tyrion, quite rightly, immediately recognized that his father would not waste that amount of wealth to simply have his flagship's captain drop him over board as fish food, or leave him a salt wife to a particularly blind and horny ironborn on Great Wyke, or hand him in chains to an Essos bound slaver recruiting for a mummer's troop.

However, the trio of warships had not even departed the freezing delta of the Milkwater before Tyrion had disturbingly learned that his lord father had departed Casterly Rock for Riverrun near two and a half months earlier; carrying nubile cousin Myrielle and feckless Uncle Stafford in tow. And, what's more, another trio of warships had initially sailed with this one, but bound instead for Seagard. Yet the raven that had come to Castle Black for him had definitively come from Casterly Rock's rookery. Such planning and actions suggested a more unusual, but no less disquieting, possible future for him.

"Lord Tyrion," the deep, gravelly voice of the captain greeted him with passable respect when he at last tittered safely up on to the poop deck. Wisely, for his continued good health, the commander of his father's flagship had proven clever enough to never add the word "little" before Tyrion's title, as many were want to do. There was nothing diminutive about his memory of slights – a Lannister pays his debts.

"Master Gerold," he acknowledged, turning about to peer toward the bow of the _Sea Lion_. Nothing but a grey haze and a light mist met his eyes. Disappointment, or nerves, twitted at him. He cleared his throat purposefully. "We did see the false lights of Feastfire last night," he posed hesitantly.

"Har-har," the captain laughed briefly, but not mockingly; instantly understanding the intent of his statement. "The Rock is there, my lord. Trust me. The granite matches well with ta morning gloom. See there …" a weathered hand gestured forward. "… twenty degrees above and … oh … five degrees off the figurehead's left ear, the grey is a shade darker."

Tyrion squinted; discerning no tangible difference between the elements of earth and wind and water. "If you say so, Master Gerold," he said after a moment. "I admit to more practice watching down from the Rock at ships approaching and not the other way."

"Oh, aye. Gods' truth," he agreed with a hint of agreeable mirth. Then, the craggy face peered knowingly over the side gunnels. "Look to the South, my lord, you'll see a few hulls heading inbound for Lannisport. That lead cog bringing ore from Harlaw is reducing sail, so it must almost be at the mouth to the jetty. You can triangulate our position from the Rock that way, I'd imagine."

"Oh, aye," Tyrion echoed saltily, seeing the outlines of a ship or three in the distance – of which he could discern no clue as to their port of origin or cargo – and then commenced with the appropriate calculations. He had not _just_ spent his copious free time immersing in nonsensical nautical terminology, along with the many wonderfully scandalous shanties the sailors sang; but also in polishing up on his trigonometry to keep his brain sharp. Master Gerold may not have been much of a conversationalist, but he knew his math with stone cold certainty.

* * *

Eventually, as the sun burned away the haze and mist, the greys separated to become distinct entities: sea, sky, shore, and the towering magnificence of Casterly Rock. Tyrion felt the continuing surge of contrary emotions as the sight slowly came into full focus: his home, his birthright, a physical opposite to everything he represented to the world.

" _The time has come to set your future as either a man or a wastrel."_

Such an odd word his father had chosen in that phrase: "man". He was a Lannister of the highest order, thus a lord of sorts, but also a dwarf. He could never _be_ a man, let alone the man he knew his father wished he had been a born: a knight – a second Jaime. If he had been, then, perhaps he might have one day earned sufficient glory to forgive him for his mother's death. No, at best, he could only ever be a halfman. Which meant what, exactly, for his future?

By the time the mouth to the cavern harbor came into view all three warships had lowered sails and slipped out oars to safely propel them the final mile to their destination. The sea mouth into the Rock was not all that wide and the tides and eddies about it fierce and unforgiving. Which was the reason why in his score and five name days of life that Tyrion had entered his house's immodest holdfast via this route fewer times than he had fingers.

"Backrow! Backrow!" Screamed the oar master as a swell lifted the ship uncomfortably close to the brutal rocks left in place a thousand years to protect against ironborn reavers cutting directly at the underground harbor.

Tyrion's guts clenched at the shakes quivering through the ship. To keep from un-halfmanning himself, he latched on to the one thing he did have control over; or, rather, once had had control over: the drains. An unglamorous position given him for a year in his youth as way of punishment by his father; however, one he had proven quite competent at.

"Stroke!"

He shook his head in disappointment at the slow dribble coming out of the primary sea culvert. With the bit of morning rain and the emptying of all the night buckets, the flow should have been twice as much. At least one of the three main west-facing drain pipes was clogged. Probably the servant's kitchen line; it had that tricky jog in it to accommodate the smithy chimneys.

"Stroke!"

The entire layout of the Rock unfolded within his mind. If his supposition were true, he knew right where backups were collecting to the frustration of several junior stewards and grooms of the household departments. He wondered what was currently being stored in the Purple and Argent level warehouses. And he definitely would avoid eating any poultry until the current mess was cleared, as the coops were in Cerion's Market. The less images he conjured of the chickens pecking through sewage rising out of the floor grates the better.

"Stroke!"

So Tyrion shifted his attention to the external spillways designed to handle excess rain to keep the cisterns from overflowing; not that they didn't from time to time. No, nary a drop came out the half dozen sea aimed spouts on the cliffs. Of course the rain had been light, so that shouldn't be a surprise. But it also didn't mean there weren't possible blockages there too. Erosion dropped chunks of rocks all the time. He scanned the cliff-faces for signs of leakages or, worse, growing algae.

"Stroke!"

And then the sun was blocked out not by clouds, but by untold millions of tons of rock as the _Sea Lion_ entered the sea cavern. "Neatly done, captain," Tyrion congratulated Master Gerold, feeling his anus begin to unpucker. The man ignored him, there was still too much actual ship work to supervise in docking the vessel.

Boom.

The approach might be deadly, but the harbor itself was safe; having been constructed unknown generations before with fiendish cleverness to dissipate and channel the power of the unending waves that forced their way inside and had carved the space out over millennia. A muffled boom regularly echoed through the confined space as the last of the pent up energy ended in the hollowed out wave capture chambers; driving the forges and lifts which helped make Casterly Rock much more than simply an overly large phallus of Lannister pride.

Boom.

The flagship of his father's fleet maneuvered towards its normal slip. Thankfully no surprise there. Whatever would happen when stepped a shore would happen in the open. Only a quarter of the oars worked to move the _Sea Lion_ now.

Boom.

Neither was the easily identifiable bulk of his Uncle Kevan standing tautly on the dock a surprise. Even if father were in Casterly Rock, Tyrion could always be assured an immediate welcome from his nuncle at the Lion's Mouth or the Lift Gate or the North Fang postern or here – though never from father. Not that he remembered ever "officially" returning home by sea, only leaving; typically in some malodorous state unbecoming a Lannister sprouted from Tywin's proud loins.

Boom.

Nor was the attendance of Aunt Genna beside his uncle any sort of a true revelation. News of the other trio of ships slipping off to Seagard had been an obvious enough clue that his father intended to spring nauntie early from the noxious Freys; her husband and sprogs included in that number. The danger lay in _why_ had she been released early from the gaol called the Twins. She had not been scheduled to return home until the New Year's festival, four months hence.

Boom.

Waiting with hidden angst for the ship to dock and tie up, Tyrion plastered a neutral, agreeable enough look on his phyz as his mind again broached the most to least probable scenarios for what was about to happen. The only reassuring part of the process was knowing that here he would not have to undergo the shame of being handled as so much cargo to exit the ship.

Boom.

As best his eyes could determine in the weakly lit underground harbor as he grew closer to them, they did appear somewhat anxious, despite hiding it well. He buried the concern _that_ created along with the rest - deep.

Boom.

Sailors leapt the shrinking gap to the dock and started wrapping the breast lines, another funny term, about the pilings for the slip. Soon enough, but not quickly, the gangway was lowered down.

Boom.

Thus, Tyrion Lannister stood tall and alone as he waddled ashore to whatever fate awaited him beyond the grim looks .

"Uncle. Aunt. A pleasure to end my journey before family," he exclaimed with only slight irony in his voice.

"Tyrion, it is good to see you," Aunt Genna said kindly, though stiffly. More kindly for not reaching down to hug him tightly to her bosom as if he were still just ten name days old.

"Tyrion, you look well," Uncle Kevan announced sincerely through evident weariness.

Boom.

"Do I? Should I be?" He replied glibly. "Is father here or is he still off gallivanting in the Riverlands for a marital alliance with the Tullys?"

Already grim visages grew grimmer.

A brand new, never before considered thought suddenly jabbed his conscience, Tyrion gulped. "Is father well?"

"Yes," Aunt Genna answered quickly.

"Perhaps we should move to the Harbor Master's office," his uncle declared, moving to put a guiding hand on his shoulder.

Boom.

' _Fool_ ,' he chastised himself; of course his father was fine - as duplicitous and cruel as ever. This was just a disgusting farce to use two of the three people he loved to finally destroy him. "No," he snarled, angrily shrugging his nuncle's big hand off his stunted shoulder. He would not go quietly to some room to be cuffed and dragged to the dungeon. "Tell me what you are hiding! Tell me like a … a Lannister!" he demanded.

His nauntie and nuncle exchanged an agonizing look. A tear slipped out of Genna's eye. Tyrion prepared to for the worst.

"It's Jaime and Cersei," Uncle Kevan said in a pained voice.

Boom.

"Wwwhaaat?"

"They are missing," Aunt Genna bleated more like a sheep than a lion.

Ice suddenly pierced the smallness of his dwarven heart and bile threatened to spew out his mouth as he swooned in shock. His stunned mind screaming, ' _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime, what have you done!?'_

Boom.

* * *

A pair of them had asked silly things about the North: First Men, the cold, Winterfell, the Night's Watch, the Wall, and his voyage south. Under normal circumstances such inquiries – even those inanely phrased – would have found him loquacious and excited in response. However, he only answered with a bare minimum of details … and politeness; spending more time availing himself of the finer parts of his father's excellent wine cellar.

And, in turn, he had heard their ill-informed thoughts on the scariness of their own sea travel, the wonders of Lannisport, and the impressiveness of the Rock. To which Tyrion placidly nodded along in pretend agreement to the air existing their mouths as he slowly prodded at his fare and quickly quaffed the wine.

All the while, his façade hid a mind focused on the fraught news of his siblings disappearance; guessing what likely had happened. Jaime bested by bandits? Ridiculous. Had their years long dalliance at last been discovered? Had Lord Stark taken revenge for what Tyrion suspected had actually happened to young Bran? Or … or had Jaime finally convinced Cersei to give up a crown and her children to run off with him … to … Seven knew where.

' _Fool_ ,' he silently chastised his brother for the thousandth time in the last few hours. No such censure was leveled at his sister. Her selfish, petty foolishness was as congenital to her being as being a dwarf was to Tyrion. May as well demand of the tides that they stop rising and falling or command Winter to never come again.

"Don't you agree, Lord Tyrion?" the fat one seated directly across from him giggled between bites of custard.

"Hhhmmmn," he hummed noncommittally, swallowing the last of the saffron and cinnamon spiced pasty in his mouth. The elegant food should have left him on clouds of ecstasy after the _Sea Lion's_ repetitive dull board, but it tasted like ashes to him. "Yes, my lady, Casterly Rock _is_ rather larger. And the Sunset Sea more so," he concurred, as if speaking to an imbecile. The goblet constantly refilled by the pages with Arbor Gold – the only part that agreed with his pallet – could not reach his mouth fast enough.

"I fear I'd be lost here in moments if I ever walked about on my own," the motley brained bint rambled on cluelessly.

"As a child, I wore a bell about my neck so nanny could find me if I wandered off," he answered drily.

"What? Truly?" she gasped.

"He jests, cousin," said the attractive, slightly less daft chit directly to his left.

"Did you, Lord Tyrion? Did you jape me, truly?"

He smiled waggishly, despite not feeling in the least amused by the situation; but, he had his part to play. Uncle Kevan and Aunt Genna had commanded him to behave ... more or less. "I did, my lady. Can you forgive me?" he asked sweetly, wiggling his eyebrows at the chubby mort.

A shriek of laughter greeted his pronouncement, followed quickly by, "You are a wicked one, Lord Tyrion."

"So my lord father has always told me," he replied; then shifted atop the cushion layers he sat upon to look down the table. "Isn't that so, Uncle?"

The crowd for the "family" dinner held in honor of his return was definitely more weaselly than typical for the lions of Casterly Rock. And, not just from the ferret faced presence of Aunt Genna's husband Emmon; nor from Tyrion's stoatish cousins Lyonel, Tion, and the youngest of their get - dubiously monikered "Red" by what passed for wit along the Green Fork. Only Cleos and his spawns absence kept the boogle from being complete.

No, Casterly Rock near broke the grace of the Seven in hosting additional progeny from the reviled Walder Frey's loins. His father's hatred of the betrothal and marriage of his dear sister Genna to the second son of the "Gate keeper masquerading as a lord" was legendary. How, as a mere stripling, Tywin had stood up defiantly before all the assembled lords of the Westerlands in the Court of Lion's Den to rebuke his own father, Tytos, over the ill-conceived, dishonorable, shameful matter.

If his father had ever had the slimmest of provocations, and the Twins were anywhere remotely close to the borders of the Westerlands, Tyrion had little doubt that new verses would have long since been added to the 'Rains of Castamere.' To that base, mercantile lineage, held in such scorn for decades in the Rock, Tywin Lannister proposed to marry his wastrel of a son, Tyrion.

This abrupt change of his father's behavior, or final confirmation of Tywin's ultimate contempt for Tyrion, being the reason for his rapid, nautical departure from the North – his impending betrothal. The terms of the dowry had already been agreed to. With the ancient, grasping, still overly lusty Lord Walder willing to accept payment, not giving as a bride's family should, of half of Tyrion's weight in gold to allow a dwarf .. an imp … a bastard in his own father's eyes … a halfman the privilege of sullying the "pristine" blood of Frey.

The last impediment to the arrangement finding if one of the five maids to accompany Aunt Genna from the Twins would deign to have his stunted self. They were the best of a dull lot according to nauntie. He took another long sip of wine as he waited for his nuncle to develop an acceptable reply to his query.

"I always told Tywin you had vast potential, Tyrion," Kevan answered gently by not directly answering the question.

Tyrion snorted. Then snorted again in surprise. A hand was unexpectedly on his thigh. He forced himself not to look down, but simply to shift his gaze back so he could stare into the brown eyes of the one teasing him below the table. Not the youngest one direct to his right, the barely flowered Zia, but the fairer of the two Waldas on his other side. He smiled lightly at her.

"Tell me, Lord Tyrion, did you wander off frequently? Into trouble?" she asked without a hint in her voice to suggest that either her question or her hidden, roaming hand were anything unladylike.

"So often my bell was mistaken for an overzealous Septon calling the faithful to prayers. Crowds of servants would gather in the most unusual places."

The much larger Walda directly across from him again cackled, "You _are_ a wicked one."

That, or more likely her cousin's hand action, drew a snicker out of Zia. A sound that caused the other two Freys, sweet looking Alyx and gap faced Roslin, to look up from the plates that had silently engrossed their attention far more than he had up until that point.

"I was never overly fond of Septons," the Walda whose fingers stroked his damnably constricted pants said conversationally.

"Would you believe that for the longest time I did wish to become a Septon?"

The fingers paused, as the other Walda chortled yet again around a mouthful at the idea of it. At least she did not pronounce that he would have been a "wicked" Septon; regardless of the truth of it. If eating was the only way to diminish that one's blathering, tittering gob, Tyrion decided he would be happy to show her the larder ... and lock the door behind her.

"What changed my Lord Tyrion's mind?"

"I discovered the sinful delights of …" he came near to saying 'whores' … "women." A painful memory of Tysha precipitously swept over him.

"That's enough of that sort of talk, Tyrion," Uncle Kevan rebuked him sternly from father's traditional seat at the table in the family's privy banquet room; causing Tyrion to further scowl and bite his lip.

However, the fingers soon resumed their tortured exploration towards his lap. It had been a loooooong time since Tyrion had had either a whore or a woman. "I am so glad that my lord did not become a Septon," she near whispered, eliciting another tiny snort of amusement from young Zia.

"Hhhmmmn," he answered discreetly as the blood fled from his brain straight towards a rapidly burgeoning cockstand. And with the surge, all thoughts of Jaime … and Tysha … emptied from his mind, at least temporarily.

* * *

When the last course had been eaten and sufficient time allowed for additional pointless prattling – at least the Frey morts were clever enough to know not to say or ask anything about Jaime and Cersei – to meet courtesy, nuncle, in his capacity as the senior family member present, civilly declared dinner to be at an end and the table dismissed.

Then, in very Tywin-esque manner, he stated bluntly, "Not you, Tyrion … and please remain as well, Genna."

The weasels retreated from the lions graciously. Each of his possible future brides bobbed a curtsey at him while generically declaring what a pleasure it had been to finally meet him, or some such frivolity. The pair of Waldas even doing so with some enthusiasm. His cock still well remembered the lusty interest of the fairer of the two.

Once the room cleared, including the servants, the Chamberlain silently nodded his head at Kevan and slipped out the last unclosed door; shutting it behind him.

Tyrion supposed his Aunt and Uncle wished to hear his first opinion of the matrimonial material. Before the meal, in the privacy of father's working salon, they had already spoken in depth about the many possible implications of Jaime and Cersei's extended "temporary" absence; neither Kevan nor Genna desiring to out-right say his siblings were almost certainly dead.

While he kept his mouth shut to his suspicion that they may well have simply run off together like love struck simpletons in a mummer's farce or a poor imitation of Targaryen tinted tragic romance. Not that Tyrion had ever actually caught them in the act, but his eyes could see and his ears listen. The one thing no one could accuse him of being was stupid.

Uncle Kevan reached into a leather satchel that had hung from his chair all night, pulled out a small mound of letters and tossed the top one at Tyrion. "Is this your father's handwriting?" his nuncle asked earnestly.

Tyrion looked down a moment at the parchment, then gazed back up Kevan, his mismatched eyes askance at the odd question. "I don't understand," he stated, giving words to his evident confusion.

"It's a simple question. Look closely and tell me whether Tywin wrote this or not?"

"Alright." He picked the brief missif up. It was the raven brought message received only a day earlier detailing the dowry his father had proposed for Myrielle that Edmure Tully present to Lord Hoster. That snared Trout had also been mentioned in passing earlier as part of the discussion around Jaime and Cersei.

He was semi pleased to note that his lovely cousin's dowry did not equal the value required to marry off a Lannister dwarf, but it was close. Hardly any gold as straight bribe, but tariffs on a wide range of goods and raw materials were set aside for either a set number of years or until one or more future heirs of Riverrun sprouted from Myrielle's undoubtedly fertile belly. Perhaps in the end the total value might be worth more to the Tullys than he would be to the Freys – if he was willing to play along with his father's cruel game.

"Yes. Of course that is his writing," he quickly avowed, stating the obvious.

"And this?" Another letter was placed in front of him. Uncle Kevan had stood up and walked to stand beside where Tyrion sat on his mound of pillows.

"Yes."

Another.

"Yes."

Another. Another. Another.

"Yes." "Yes." "Yes."

"What about this one?"

"Yes."

"Are you certain, Tyrion?"

"What is this all about, nuncle?" he asked, starting to feel exasperated.

"Look again. Closer," Aunt Genna prompted him, speaking for the first time.

He audibly sighed and indeed looked again. His brow crinkled slightly. "He may have been drinking?" Tyrion suggested slowly. There was something not quite right about the penmanship; nothing truly significant.

"What about these?"

Four more were placed in front of him. "Yeeesss, something is off. Isn't it. And look here, the wording isn't as formal as is father's norm. Curious." He gazed up again to see Uncle Kevan nodding slowly, concern written large on his face.

"A week before Tywin left for Riverrun, he began acting strangely. He was distracted, forgetful; asking for information, odd news some of it – stuff he could easily recite from memory. He was clearly pre-occupied and concerned about something. He refused to say what when I gently prodded him on it. And he drank more than is his regular want."

Tyrion pursed his lips at the apparent conundrum. "Do you think he suffered a brain seizure?"

His nuncle shrugged. "I asked him whether his head ached. He scoffed at the idea. And got angry when I suggested he did not look well and that Maester Creylen should attend him. Said, ' _my bowels are fine, damn you_.'"

At this point, Aunt Genna interjected again. "The Tywin, the brother, I know and love would never, ever seek out the Freys for a betrothal to his son."

A wry, resigned smile slipped across Tyrion's face. "But, then, it is I we are talking about. And we know what high esteem father has ever held me in," he said with blatant sarcasm.

"For any Lannister. And you are a Lannister, Tyrion," his nauntie stated fiercely.

'Yes, at least father cannot deny that Joanna Lannister was my mother,' he thought before returning to the question at hand. "So what does it mean? His penmanship returned to normal during the time he travelled into the Riverlands, arranged for you to return to Casterly Rock with a bevy of beauties in tow, convinced Edmure Tully to anger his father, see the King and his new Hand, and offer Jaime one last chance to return as his heir." Tyron shrugged.

"We are not suggesting taking an undo course," Aunt Genna.

Tyrion chuckled at that. As far as father was concerned, that was all he ever did.

"But do you not agree that this all hints at something … unusual," she continued

"Well …" the dagger took him unaware. What if Tywin had learned of Cersei and Jaime? What would the Old Lion do? Become a kinslayer? Would he dare that stigma? Was that why Tyrion had been commanded to return so quickly to Casterly Rock? A marriage already arranged, only the specific bride to be determined? His father couldn't possibly be thinking of at long last formally making him heir, could he?

"What is it, Tyrion?" Kevan cried, alert to whatever movement had come unbidden to his face.

"No, no. My apologies." He rubbed his belly. "Gas. The food tonight was too rich after the Sea Lion's salty fare. No, I have no insight – at least yet – to offer. It is a tad more than passing strange, I admit."

His uncle's shoulders slumped slightly. "Can we agree at least, that when Tywin does return, we keep a wary eye out for any continuing peculiar behavior on his part."

"Aye aye," Tyrion concurred. "Though there is likely little we can do. That is unless it turns out he has been replaced by a Faceless Man," he chortled.

* * *

His dreams were full of Jaime. Luckily, good dreams. Together they roamed the Rock and the Westerlands; a knight and his squire. Setting wrongs right. Doing good deeds. Tweaking the sensibilities of insufferable Septons. Revealing the hypocrisies of overbearing lordlings. Lightening the load of unscrupulous tax collectors. Bandits slain whilst the quips flew hotter and heavier than the steel against them.

And oh, the maidens. The sweetest creatures. They swooned over noble, glorious Jaime, of course; but a few shared sweet shy kisses with the squire too. He lead one off into her father's fields. Hearing calls of "Tyrion", they delved into a haystack so as not to be discovered.

She placed his hands on her ripe breasts. He clutched her tight, nuzzling her. His hands sought more of her flesh. His advances beyond propriety were met with giggles and enthusiasm. Pants shed. Skirt lifted. His cock, hard as the sword wielded only a short while ago, deftly hunted its reward - plunging deep. Hot. Moist. The maiden's giggles turned to moans. His own voice adding groans of pleasure in time to the beat of his sweaty thrusts.

Tyrion's eyes blinked open to find both darkness and a weight across his stunted legs. His cock screamed with delight as something … a mouth … moved up and down his hardness. He was close … oh oh oh … so close.

His hands reached down and found a bobbing mound of hair. He clutched at it, forcing the stranger's head to move more urgently.

The briefest of pauses and then rapidly the lips and tongue latched on tighter, sliding quicker.

"Gsschhmmmaaa!" he moaned. His entire body tensed and then he reached the peak; his seed began spurting.

Another split second pause before the greedy mouth swallowed the copious amounts of his offering.

The lips at last moved off his spent member. The weight shifted off his legs. A giggle. "Teeheee. Walda was right, my lord Tyrion is not so small where it matters. Emmmm. And tasty too." Her tongue gave his shrinking cock another lick.

"Walda?" he gasped, guessing who it might be.

Another silly giggle in reply.

"What are you doing here?" he sputtered, trying to gather his wits.

"Showing you the sort of wife I'd be if you choose me."

"How did … how did you get here?"

"Bribes. Grandfather gifted us enough silver to see to our needs. And after your long sea journey, I guessed you'd have needs too. Teehehee." She crawled her substantial self up so that her face was beside his. "Was I wrong, my lord?"

"Nnnoooo. But … why?"

"Walda and I diced to see who would sit next to you tonight at sup and who would visit you in your chamber. I won. Tomorrow, if you wish, she will visit you and I shall sit beside you, if it pleases my lord Tyrion."

"I … Walda, this does not mean I will choose you … or … the other … Walda."

"Teehee, we call her 'Fair' Walda in the Twins. There are ever too many Walders and Waldas there. Teehehe, we have a difficult enough time remembering ourselves." The silly, light tone slipped a moment from her voice as she added bitterly, "Our parents are such grasping fools to try and curry favor so obviously."

That caused Tyrion to chuckle. "And the gift you just gave me, was that not currying favor too?"

She giggled again and snuggled her bulk in close to him, near overwhelming him.

"You do know this does not mean I will choose you," he repeated.

A soft sigh whispered in his ear. "Zia and Alyx will not have you. Roslin wants to see whether you are honorable or not before she decides. Are you, my lord?"

He chortled again. "Enough. When motivated."

"I will have you if you want. And so will Wanda. Walder, Black Walder we call him, has been forcing his intentions on her. She would do anything, anything, to keep from returning to the Twins." 'Fat' Walda shivered beside him. "Black Walder is a pig," she declared angrily. Then switched back to sweetness in a blink, "If you choose Roslin or me, please let Walda remain here. Please."

"I will consider it. Do you care to return to the Twins?"

Quiet.

"Walda?"

"No."

"And are you a maiden?"

"Yes, my lord."

"With a mouth as talented as yours?" he scoffed. His was not the first cockstand she had handled, even through his sleepiness he had recognized that.

"My uncles and cousins are brutes. At times even my fat is not armor enough to protect me from their lusts," she answered sadly. "And I am not a slut like my sister Amerei – Gatehouse Ami we call her. So I learned before I flowered to do what I must."

" _Gods_ ," Tyrion thought in horror and found himself trying to slip a protective arm about the large, perhaps not so daft, girl in his bed.


	9. Chapter 8

**PETYR POV**

"My lord?" the Serjeant of the Treasury interrupted politely from the Vault door.

"Yes, Myles?" Petyr replied, looking up from the tedious chore of reviewing the accuracy of the "official" accounts with Ser Malwyn and the Treasurer of the Keep's senior clerk, Rayf.

"The gold cloaks above the Gate House have waved the King's banner a second time."

Petyr smiled tightly at the news of the royal party finally starting the ascent of Aegon's High Hill, for at last the game returned to him in full. "Our dear Robert arrives, but alas without his sweet Queen." He looked at Ser Malwyn and commanded, "Let us go present ourselves with the others."

Then, before standing up from the counting table, he added, "Serjeant, please remind Lord Daven he is to meet with Lord Errold as soon as decency permits. I want an accounting of how much the King's trip cost the Privy Purse – both in gold and favors."

"Very good, my lord," the serjeant readily agreed. The Master of Coin allotted the gold cloak officer pay for never performed work with the Crownland's tax collectors and the Duskendale Custom's Office to ensure his diligence in running the Treasury's staff, and not just its guards, according to Petyr's wishes.

Petyr and Ser Malwyn proceeded out of the Treasury's inner sanctum and down the stairs of the Exchequer Tower to the Outer Yard, with Myles following dutifully behind; leaving Rayf to put away the books, lock up the Vault, and bring a scroll denoting the significant updates to his private quarters for later perusal, most likely on the morrow.

The Serjeant Porter already had two lines of properly polished gold cloak spear carriers in place to suitably salute the returning monarch. Wisely, the Master of Revels had heeded Petyr's suggestion and the court musicians were not present to possibly muck up what should be a somber occasion, regardless of Robert's feelings on Cersei's absence. So much to learn.

He headed towards the shade the Tower of the Hand cast in front of the gate to the Middle Bailey. Near two dozen pieces of niggling to minor worth on the board were already gathering there to formally receive the King – Kingsguards, Esquires of the Body, lordlings of the Keep, lordlings of the Privy Chambers. Of the group, not counting the Treasurer of the Keeper who walked beside him, only two of them were wholly his creatures – Sers Edwyle and Ambrose. Of course he bribed all of them, either directly or through intermediaries; even Varys and Pycelle. It was an expected part of the game.

And then there was his reluctant ally, Harwin Hersy; a lord of the Vale and the Steward of the Keep thanks to Jon Arryn's influence. Vain, too proud, and more bother than the mostly redundant information he unenthusiastically passed on in dribs and drabs to Petyr warranted. Yet share with him the be-winged chalice full of vinegar did, in obedience to Lysa's last command before she fled at his suggestion to the Eyrie; the useful, silly mort.

"Lord Petyr. Ser Malwyn," a profusely sweating Pycelle greeted them.

"Good day to you, Grand Maester," the Treasurer of the Keep answered courteously, with an accompanying formal bob of the head, as he stepped past the long time Lannister tool to join the keep lordlings making up the second line.

"Grand Maester," Petyr replied breezily, stepping into the gap in the front row between the old man and the eunuch. The pair of Small Councilors, with near two decades familiarity, despised each other deeply. A fact he enjoyed using for both purpose and play. He turned about to face towards the Gate House and then looked over at the much more dangerous Spider; powdered, perfumed, and calm as ever. "Lord Varys," he acknowledged pleasantly.

"Lord Petyr. A momentous occasion; the arrival of a new Hand with our dear King. And under such difficult circumstances. Tsk-tsk-tsk."

"Difficult? Nay, horrible. I pray the Queen is found soon. Yet, the realm must be ruled," Pycelle interjected as he oft did to pontificate pointlessly. "I shall miss old Lord Arryn's wise, guiding hand behind the Iron Throne. But surely Lord Stark will provide some needed vigor for our poor, distraught King Robert."

' _Ancient hypocrite_ ,' Petyr laughed silently to himself.

"Agreed," Varys purred. "Lord Stark, in his vigor, will undoubtedly wish to investigate many, _many_ things. Are _your_ accounts in order, Lord Petyr?"

"To the Stag," he boasted.

"Not to the halfpenny? To the last piece of cutlery? To the last fish in the acatery?" the eunuch tittered, making an allusion that besides himself only Ser Aron, in all King's Landing, might understand.

"Come, come, Varys," Pycelle fussed. "Lord Petyr is the Master of Coin. Not also the Master of the Great Kitchen."

"Quite right, Grand Maester. Please forgive me, Lord Petyr, the day is so warm. I fear the heat has addled my delicate brain," and the eunuch pretended to dab at his spotless head.

Petyr smiled as the verbal dueling had passed cluelessly above Pycelle's wispy, bald pate and decided to directly tweak the dotard himself. "I might render a finer accounting of the Iron Throne's finances to Lord Stark if your clerk, Grand Maester, could be bothered to provide a list of all the Rookery's expenses. Just last week, a requisition for the repayment of ten dragons for 'medicinal herbs' from off that Sothoryos cog. Rather vague, that, I fear."

"The … the jungles of the … the southron continent have many … plants with efficacious qualities for the heart and … and liver and … " Pycelle's spluttering answer turned into a wracking, phlegmatic cough.

"Lungs?" Petyr smirked at the horny goat. The Grand Maester's groom had gone to the _Gr'ouse Khur_ for the same reason that the madams and operators of several of his brothels had visited the ship – for Pong root. And Pycelle's man servant was young enough that Petyr doubted _he_ needed any aid in stiffening his cock.

Varys giggled along at the old fool's discomfort. No doubt the Spider's little birds also knew about that little excursion. At least Pycelle still had a cock to worry about. The eunuch was too seasoned a player to ever outwardly show resentment at others ability to slake their lusts. But inwardly? There was much about Varys that Petyr could only guess at.

The trumpets rang out to announce the return of the King to the Red Keep.

Lord Lomas, the Master of the Horse, led the procession through the Gate House. Beside him rode the Knight Harbinger, Ser Jason Serrett, carrying the incongruous Royal banner of a Stag _and_ a Lion. Next came a pair of tits on a bull sporting white cloaks – Ser Boros and Ser Meryn. Then two of the four Esquires of the Body whom Robert had selected to attend him on the journey to Winterfell – Ser Galbert Yew and Ser Vayard Hamell – two Westerlanders firmly in thrall to the Lannisters.

A minor flood of ever favor seeking lordlings and knights flowed through next. Once through the parallel lines of gold cloaks, knowing their place, they immediately made for the stables. Petyr would speak privately with several of them over the next few days. He wondered which ones Varys had suborned. Hopefully none of his, but he must assume that the Spider had entangled all of them.

At last Ser Barristan came out of the dark tunnel and into the light of the Outer Yard. The only Kingsguard, perhaps ever, that Petyr could believe had never once dipped his wick after swearing his vows to the Iron Throne. He sighed softly in disappointment at the many lost opportunities the incorruptible knight presented. That, however, did not mean that the Lord Commander and his honor could not be used to Petyr's advantage if and when the time was right.

More movement out of the tunnel of the Gate House.

Stark.

The fit, stern faced lord riding along as a blatant counterpoint to the bloated, wine flushed King could be no other.

" _Cat,_ " Petyr thought sadly in confirmation of the expected disappointment realized. As he pondered how any man who matched her glowing description could _ever_ have been the boon companion, closer than a brother – admittedly not difficult considering Stannis and Renly – to drunk, whore mongering Robert Baratheon, his body began to fidget.

He discovered he itched. And not just where the large scar crossed his chest, but at each place his rival's brother had inflicted a wound upon him so many years and plans ago. With an exertion of will, Petyr settled himself. He dared not check whether the Spider had noticed, and thus give confirmation of his momentary weakness.

Renly and Joffrey came paired next. Was the sword-swallower, instead of Stark, responsible for taking dear momma and "uncle" from the golden shite? Loras Tyrell _had_ departed King's Landing for Highgarden ages ago. And Renly's seemingly random decision to journey all the way up to the Trident in order to greet the returning Robert smelled like the sheepshit at the Drearfort. Had his instigation of Jon Arryn's death emboldened someone to a bolder plan than his own?

The Hound, Robar Royce, the other two Esquires of the Body – Ser Guyard and one of the Wendwater brothers, Ser Dalton, Tommen, Myrcella, …

The Master-at-Arms and the Captain of the Keep, Ser Gawan Blackbar, stomped forward in unison to address Robert. "The Keep is yours, your Grace," they announced, speaking the formal words to end their joint, paper thin regency, permitted in the absence of a Hand, over the royal court.

Robert gave a desultory nod, grunted "See to it, Ned," and kept riding towards the gate to the Middle Bailey, the Serpentine Steps, the Lower Bailey, Maegor's Holdfast, wine, and whatever willing, comforting quim his Chamberlain had already assuredly arranged for. With nary a word, the four Kingsguard sharing the front line with the Small Council members, their months long holiday now over, peeled off to dutifully follow behind the large arse of their liege's horse.

The Northron Lord reined his drab mount to a stop and with a haughty demeanor peered disapprovingly down at them. Just like every other lord who owed his exalted position to the expediency of having had his noble sire squirt sufficient quantities of noble seed into his equally noble mother's fertile womb.

"My lords," Stark acknowledged the three of them at once from his prominent height. "Has Lord Stannis returned from Dragonstone?"

"The Master of Ships has yet to return, Lord Eddard," Pycelle declared, taking it upon himself to be the first to pretend comity and obedience towards the Hand.

Stark frowned. "Regardless, tomorrow, we shall have a meeting of the Small Council and see what affairs that may have cropped up these last few months that his Grace wishes to address first."

This lack of understanding about how the realm functioned brought answering smiles to the two men and the eunuch's faces.

The misguided command was quickly followed by a question. "Maester Pycelle, any news from Darry on the search for the Queen?"

"Alas, no, Lord Eddard. Lord Tywin has been faithfully diligent in sending a raven each day. By now I would think Lord Raymun would have run out of birds. I have little idea as to where he could be acquiring …"

"Grand Maester," Stark rumbled ominously.

"Apologies, Lord Hand. I fear for once, the Volantene adage is wrong and no news is _not_ , in fact, good news."

"Lord Varys, has the Master of Whisperers heard who would be so bold as to kidnap the Queen and Ser Jaime?" Stark unimaginatively moved his questioning on from the doddering chain wearer.

"My little birds were rather sparse in the Riverlands," the eunuch winced. "Though I have since rectified that deficiency by sending a flock of them to hunt and peck about the Trident for any morsel or scrap."

" _Gods! How tedious the figures of speech everyone believes so clever,_ " Petyr thought, while refraining from both rolling his eyes and groaning. Was it any wonder he took the Mockingbird as his symbol?

"But they did hear that your goodbrother has asked Lord Hoster's permission to betroth the Lady Myrielle Lannister," Varys stealthily slipped in the unforeseen backhand blow.

"What!?" Stark cracked.

"Would not House Tully's approbation to this match be a joyous occurrence to lighten, if only briefly, these dark days; short may the Gods make them," Pycelle expostulated piously.

Petyr masked his face from showing surprise at the announcement; Varys had not cared to share that juicy, implication fraught tidbit before. His mind whirled through a series of calculations, while a separate part of him could feel nothing but respect for Tywin Lannister. Even in the face of severe setbacks the Old Lion continued making surprising, effective moves – neutralizing the Riverlands alliance with the Starks if Hoster foolishly agreed. There had been times Petyr had debated inducing Edmure to visit King's Landing. The boy had regarded him well, even through the disgrace – thanks to not knowing the full extent of it. His friend, Littlefinger, could have rewarded him his loyalty with bevies of desirable lady friends; a chance of one with just sufficient birth enchanting him permanently. But the risk of what Edmure's protracted presence might do to his hold over Lysa and her fears had always been too great for him to make the offer.

"Lord Baelish?" the Stark growled, evidently not for the first time.

"My apologies, Lord Stark. I did not realize you had addressed me. Mention of Lord Edmure took me back to memories of happier times."

"Lord Petyr was ever a good friend here at court to Lord Edmure's sister, the Lady Lysa," Pycelle bloviated, speaking to enjoy the sound of his own voice.

"And a sweet friend of your lady wife, Catelyn, I hear too," Varys chirped in with a smirk.

"Though not so much your brother, Brandon, if I recollect correctly," Petyr added amiably, mentally adding a fresh pain to the torture he intended giving the Spider one day.

"You do, Littlefinger," Stark fumed.

"Is there anything the Master of Coins may provide you, Lord Stark?" he queried cheerfully of the agitated Northman.

"I wish to see an accounting of the treasury as soon as possible."

Petyr smiled. " _Sooner than possible_ ," he thought, glad that Stark had just given him a plausible reason to pay the Tower of the Hand a visit at dusk. "The Hand's wish is my …" For once, Petyr's tongue failed him as a vision in red hair rode slowly into view. He suddenly felt himself ten years old again, back playing in the Godswood.

"Is your what, Littlefinger," Stark snapped impatiently.

"Is that a direwolf?"

Stark shifted in his saddle to look behind himself; then turned back, a wicked grin on his icy face. "It is. She's named Lady and belongs to the Lady Sansa who rides beside her. My other daughter, Arya, has one as well; named Nymeria," he boasted.

"Most impressive. I hope you may allow me to call upon your sweet children so that I might study their amazing beasts," the Grand Maester pleaded, for once showing a lust for learning that outpaced his desire for Pong root.

"Amazing, I've almost never seen the like," Varys swooned. "Prince Joffrey is a lucky lad to gain both a lady and Lady from one betrothal."

"Wherever shall you keep her, Lord Stark?" Petyr asked.

* * *

The chaos swirling about inside the Tower of the Hand was to a degree to be anticipated. The settling of two hundred some odd men and a few women and children, as well as all their baggage, after a thousand mile journey was not an insignificant effort. So Petyr was not surprised to find himself waiting a while for his mark in the salon off the tower's lower audience chamber.

The transition might have gone better were it not for stubborn Northern pride. The offer of assistance from Ser Tyler Kellington, the Comptroller of the Keep whose very job was the assignment and tracking of all lodgings other than those in Maegor's Holdfast, had been spurned. As had been a similar proposition made by Lord Hersy.

The honorable Hand was already proving himself wonderfully obtuse to how the game was played. The Steward was from the Vale and a diehard Arryn supporter; while Stark had been practically raised in the Eyrie as foster son to the dead falcon. Harwin Hersy may have lacked the wits of Petyr's old wet nurse Grisel, but the lord undeniably held modicums of power and influence within the red walls. An immediate alliance between the two should have been as simple as breathing.

In fact, Petyr doubted Stark had yet bothered to identify any denizens of the Vale to hold notable positions of rank in the Red Keep. He could list them all in less time than it took to blink: Maester of the Works – Paxter Runcimen; Esquires of the Body – Sers Gerion Waxley, Ambrose Donniger, and Hullund Borrell; King's Septon – Desmond Anson; Keeper of the Jewels – Lord Jasper Brassey; Septon of the Royal Sept – Tomard Hardyng; and, Master of the Great Kitchen – Ser Lewys Pryor. While the list of those knights, squires, serjeants, clerks, grooms, ushers, and pages of the Vale who remained from Jon Arryn's many years of patronage was substantially longer.

Of course, who paid and who actually owned each of them was even more convoluted, terribly critical, and ever changing.

Stark at last entered the room. Petyr put down the passable red that standard curtesy had seen offered him, stood, and bowed slightly.

"Lord Baelish, I know I said 'as soon as possible,' but I did not expect you this soon," Stark declared somewhat lightly, making at least a minimal attempt to mollify his belligerent tone from earlier. Hopeless.

"You are the King's Hand. I serve at your pleasure," Petyr lied effortlessly.

The over proud lord pointed at the saddle bag sitting beside Petyr's feet. "The records?"

"No, something much more useful for tonight, Lord Stark," Petyr said glibly and bent over to pull back the flap. Grasping the dark clothe, he yanked it out and tossed it at the mark.

Confusion splayed across that so similar face to the other. But even startled, Stark moved quickly and readily snatched the garment out of the air. "What is the meaning of this, Littlefinger."

Petyr paused a moment. The other had taunted him on Riverrun's sparring ground with his nickname after each cut. Like two peas in a frozen pod they were. "You don't want spying eyes to recognize the new Hand when we travel down into the city tonight … Stark."

Stark glared angrily at him. "What game are you playing, Littlefinger?"

"The only one that matters, Stark; the Game of Thrones. My move is to lull you into a false sense of security whilst heading into an ambush where I will finally gain my vengeance on your miserable, honorable house," he mocked.

"For Brandon?"

" _For Cat_ ," he answered without moving his lips. "Surely your dear dead brother must have spoken of me?"

Heat still shown in those cool, grey eyes. "Many times. In Harrenhal."

" _And soon enough, afterward, he spoke not at all … ever. An almost satisfactory conclusion. Almost,_ " he thought. "Then you know of my deep affection for your lady wife."

"Catelyn has spoken of you as well," Stark added with evident bitter pleasure.

"More fondly than not, I hope."

"Perhaps," the mark smirked knowingly.

"Then come. You've nothing to be afraid of," Petyr declared and moved away from Stark towards the salon's door to the audience chamber.

"No," came the predictable rebuke.

Petyr kept walking. "Cat will be disappointed, heartbroken even, that you refused to see her."

"Stop," the commanding voice demanded.

He stopped to look over his shoulder at the fool dressed in grey instead of motley, an amused look on his face. "You don't believe me?"

"Catelyn is in Winterfell," Stark said with utter conviction.

Not asking the only relevant question of " _What brought Cat to King's Landing?_ " Petyr would not reward an idiot. "Is she?" he responded, tweaking his face into a bemused, quizzical expression. "I think I would have remembered a twin. No-no, I am fairly certain it is her. Red hair. Blue eyes. Fair skin. Cheekbones. Pert nose. About yea high." Petyr lifted a hand an inch or two above his own modest height. "Well," he drawled, "If _you_ don't wish to come, I suppose I must keep this mystery Tully for myself."

Disbelief, hate, need, suspicion, relief all flit across that classic, dull Stark face; breaking the stoic façade. "Wait … I will go with you."

"Excellent. I promised Cat I'd bring her lord husband to her. Safely. I do abhor breaking a promise."

"If this is a trick …"

"Yes-yes. Dungeon. The lash. Red hot pokers in …" Petyr exaggerated a quiver "… rather uncomfortable private places. Then Ser Ilyn. I understand. Now best put that cloak on. Hood up too. And grab a short sword from somewhere before we slip out of the tower. My enemies expect to see me with a body guard. Mustn't disappoint."

"Am I your enemy, Littlefinger?"

Petyr sighed dramatically. "It would be easier if you were, Stark."

* * *

With Robert's return, the Middle Bailey and Outer Yard were busier, even after dark, than in months. The Stark's baggage train was not the only one that required tending. The grounds needed to be cleared by morning should the King actually rouse himself from wine and women to rejoin the regular routines of jousting and weapons training. And, after such a prolonged absence, a veritable horde of eager ninnies were desperate to risk life and limb to gain the royal notice through displays of martial folly.

"A step behind and to the right of your better, sellsword," Petyr hissed at Stark, who clearly failed to comprehend his role in the charade.

"Don't expect me to call you milord," came an angry whisper back at him.

"Slouch menacingly like the lowborn killer you are. We are being watched," he replied softly.

"Varys?"

"His little birds are everywhere," Petyr cautioned, though he would have been surprised if the eunuch was bothering. Varys knew exactly where Cat was and only an utter moron could fail to deduce that Petyr would bring Stark to her at the earliest convenience. The real question was how assiduously the spies and informers for the Lannisters, for Renly, for the Tyrells, for the Martells, and for half a dozen other middling and small noble factions or strictly independent operators were paying attention.

They approached the postern close between both the Exchequer Tower and Varys' miserably spartan quarters built into the keep's red curtain wall. He bribed Kryss Cooper, the Serjeant Porter, near as much as he did Janos Slynt, Allard Deem, or Gawan Blackbar to ensure that only gold cloaks loyal to Petyr ever manned this entrance. Most of them were; and, he suspected he knew who owned each of the guards who accepted his coin to pretend to be his.

"Milord," those on duty greeted him, either coming to attention or immediately going to work open the thick oak and iron reinforced door.

"Horses?"

"Waiting, I believe, milord," Dennys, the corporal currently in charge, promptly answered.

"Anything unusual tonight?" he queried.

"No, milord. The normal quiet."

"Beggars begging, drunks vomiting, alley cats fighting, whores moaning, hmmnn?" Petyr japed.

A chuckle back, then, "And guards shirking, milord," the man answered by rote.

"Excellent." The door creaked open enough to slip through. "Come," he commanded Stark without bothering to look at him, and stepped through.

A quite modest establishment sat near the very top of Shadowblack Lane, dedicated to supporting messengers who came at all hours of the day and night to and from the Iron Throne, and every noble within the Red Keep who believed himself more important than he was – all of them.

"Milord," the actual sellsword he had chosen hours earlier to stand watch greeted him, stepping out from the gloom and scent of hay and piss and dung of the stables.

"Utred. Is all well?"

"Yes," the cutthroat said curtly, eyeing Stark professionally. Then, louder, "Boy!"

The young wretch brought out a pair of horses; one decent for Petyr and the other a nag for the Hand. Petyr mounted. Stark followed.

Right then would have been the perfect time for a dagger to have pierced his rival's kidney if … if he had so desired it. An unwitting stooge, promptly killed for daring the crime of assassinating the King's own Hand, would not have been difficult to arrange; nor the clues with which a modicum of intelligent effort would have provided a trail back to the Lannisters. Had not Stark's son been crippled? Followed by the not so mysterious disappearance of Cersei and the Kingslayer. The Lord of Winterfell's death was the inevitable, logical next step of the feud. And Cat would …

Petyr tossed a penny to the boy and a stag to the sellsword for their service. Off he prodded his mount.

A block or two later, satisfied with his seat on the rented horse, Petyr decided to engage Stark. "What do you think really happened to the Lannister twins?"

"I am allowed to speak now?" Stark grumbled.

Petyr laughed. "And ride beside me if you wish."

The clip-clop of their horses' iryon shod hooves on the cobblestone of the street, as well as their movement down Aegon's High Hill, sufficiently covered their conversation from eaves dropping by those they passed. It was not so late that only the most desperate elements remained about. At least in this part of the city, the streets at night were well lit by the rich borough magisters, the respectable merchants and guilds, and the nobility businesses and mansions clustered about the power of the Red Keep.

Stark pushed his nag to draw even with Petyr. "I wish I knew what happened to the Queen and Ser Jaime," came the answer; the man's honor forcing him to use the proper titles for two very improper sorts.

He sounded as if he meant it. And no one from the royal party that Petyr had cornered and spoken to in the afternoon had seemed to have had an idea either, other than the patently ridiculous notion of pirates or mountain clans.

"What enemies did the Lannisters have here?" Stark questioned too obviously.

Petyr laughed. "Who wasn't an enemy?" he responded, before taking the opportunity to create possible division. "Though only Lord Renly was strong enough to openly chafe against their growing power."

"He was at the Trident," Stark declared with the perception of a toddler.

The very reason he had mentioned Renly instead of Stannis. "Lord Tywin must have been furious," he suggested, trying to get the direwolf to reveal his feelings towards the lion.

"He … was," Stark agreed, proving how scintillating banter must be in Winterfell for Cat. Not that she had complained a whit about him. No, far from it.

They trotted on a while without speaking, turning off Shadowblack Lane and heading towards the Hill of Rhaenys. Surprisingly, Stark opened his tight gob, "Lord Lannister says the Iron Throne is heavily in debt to Casterly Rock."

"When did the Lion say that?" he replied with an amused tone intended to provoke.

"The first night he joined the King's party." Which put the contending lords' conversation before Cersei and Jaime's disappearance. "Is it true, Littlefinger?" he asked with an earnestness to match his sour disposition.

"Yes. The King enjoys his frivolities."

"For over a million dragons worth to the Lannisters alone!" Stark burst.

Petyr smiled to himself. The adjusting of the official accounts had been the correct move. At least in the purview of the Master of Coins, the new Hand appeared to have the semblance of solid information. What had the two discussed? And why would the Old Lion share such with an obvious rival? Which debt had the Lannister been intending to pay off. "Closer to two million, with interest, I fear; though Lord Tywin gave the most magnanimous rates to his goodson." The Treasurer of the Keep's books now showed the correct charge; reducing how much could be skimmed off the repayments to the various notes. "Did he seem concerned the Iron Throne could not meet its debts?" he asked innocently.

"No. Only deeply perturbed in his belief that his Grace is too profligate for the good of the realm."

"Our dear Robert has a generous heart. Do your mightiest to restrain it, Stark." A fool's errand which would hopefully keep his stiff Northern nose too distracted from over much poking in Petyr's plans. Many of which were very much up in the air until the current chaos sorted itself out a bit further. Events had accelerated faster, much faster, than he had anticipated. "Wait until his Grace desires to throw a tourney. You've six months at best; Prince Joffrey's next name day. Your heart is not so cold, Stark, that you would deny your sweet daughter and her betrothed that joy, would you?"

The Hand choose to brood on that in silence rather than answer aloud.

Petyr kept his eyes open and led them on a circuitous route through the streets that would reveal whether they were being followed; which, if they were not, did not negate the strong likelihood that at times they were watched.

They arrived at his recently revealed bolt hole. An establishment bought three years ago through a long series of intermediaries. A building that now dead carpenters and masons had fitted parts of to his very exacting requirements. A modest edifice that he had purposefully never visited until a fortnight ago. He dismounted quickly; surprisingly anxious to see whether the coming play was tragedy or farce.

Stark alit from his nag; clearly eager to see _his_ Cat. Confusion and then anger swept over his turgid face as he took the setting in. "You've brought me to a brothel!?" he snarled over the background noise of drunken song and drunken laughter that issued from the open door and windows of the place.

"Very astute of an honorable paragon like yourself. Did the red light give it away?" he snickered.

Fast. Fast as his best sellswords, Stark fell upon Petyr; roughly shoving him against the brick wall of the warehouse built beside _Sweet Reds_ cathouse.

"Mock me again, Littlefinger, and I promise I will do what my brother should have," the pompous lord exclaimed, swearing a typical pointless oath.

"Your wife is inside," he replied calmly, suppressing his fear. Steel pricked the flesh beneath his chin. A trickle of blood merged with the sweat on his neck. "Where best to hide a great lady from the Lannisters."

"And why do _you_ fear the Lannisters?"

Petyr blinked in surprise at the question. "Because Catelyn shared the secret message Lysa sent her."

"What?" Stark barked; his turn to be surprised.

The pressure and steel against Petyr eased slightly.

"My lord, no!" a cry in the night called out.

Stark released Petyr entirely, whirling about in the dark to confront the approaching voice and loud footfalls. "Back. Or I shall make this your trouble too," the Northman threatened.

"That's your man, Ser Rodrik. Believe him, if you must," Petyr chastised his rival, reaching a hand up to gently stroke his abused neck.

"Ser Rodrik?" Stark gasped.

The old knight stepped into a glimmer cast by the red glass encased light hanging above the brothel's entrance. "Aye. T'is me, my lord. Your lady wife waits within, truly," he assured his dull brained liege.

* * *

The grey haired minion of Winterfell used his key to unlock the door to the private room specifically assigned him in the back corner of the brothel's second floor. Then bolted it from within and dropped a secure bar in place as well, once Petyr and Stark had entered behind him.

After cautioning Ser Rodrik to remain there in case Varys' little birds were about, Petyr strode over to the wardrobe, opened it, and pushed on the hidden button that caused the rear of the interior to swing backward. He gestured for Stark to go first up the narrow set of stairs that were revealed.

He did so; to be greeted after the ascent with Cat's cry of joy and relief at the end of a mere few months absence, "Oh, my lord!" A significantly warmer greeting than she had given Petyr two weeks ago upon seeing him for the first time in sixteen years. Stark's assuredly equally endearing words were too muffled for him to hear.

Petyr took his own last step of the journey and passed through the door frame into the long narrow safe-room to see the pathetically happy pair clutching each other. "So not a twin, then?" he commented.

Petty fears temporarily assuaged, the two separated just enough to be able to look into each other's eyes. "Are the girls well? Petyr regularly brings what news he garners of the misfortune at the Trident. I've been frightened for them," she babbled.

"Yes, yes they are well. Sansa is quite enchanted with Prince Joffrey."

With his reassurance, Cat sagged with relief back closer into Stark's arms.

"But … why? Why did you come here, Cat?"

"Finally!" Petyr sneered to himself at Stark's inadequacies.

"Is … is it Bran?" Stark continued sorrowfully

"Alive, last I knew," she whispered sadly, staring up into Stark's eyes.

"Pycelle would have already told you had there been news for good or ill, Stark," Petyr interjected. "He's despicable and a Lannister creature through and through, but not above shamelessly ingratiating himself with a new Hand."

"Then why?"

"It is about Bran, in a way?" Cat stated.

Confusion reigned on that stupid, leaden face.

"An assassin tried to kill him," she said slowly.

Stark mindlessly tensed and flinched. Cat struggled out of his manhandling grip.

"With this," she added. Pulling out the dagger of his that had added yet another interesting, unexpected flame to the spark he had ignited.

"I don't understand, my love. Wait … your hands," Stark surged angry again, at last noticing the angry red scars that creased her palms. He grabbed for her hands, but only succeeded in taking the blade from her.

Petyr' own sudden desire for the most painful forms of vengeance at the cutthroat who had hurt his Cat had ebbed almost entirely over the last two weeks. Replaced by contempt at the amateurish bungling of the move. Though pleased that the failure could only aid him in the long run.

"Shhhh, my love," Cat answered him, fingers softly touching his lips. "I shall explain all." And she did, while Petyr observed the two. His presence in the room entirely forgotten. Unlike him, grey had not yet touched her auburn hair. And the Tully eyes were as blue as ever. But the rest of her body, while as womanly as he had long imagined it would become; had been altered from the fresh, joyous girl of his memories. His angel was worn down before her time by the cruel North, by the bitter of Winter, by bearing Stark his brood of children.

She had warmed slightly to him as he kept her safe from intruding eyes and wagging tongues; visiting near nightly to bring the latest tidbits of the unusual events unfolding in the Riverlands and the latest court gossip. In turn, she treated him not quite as a servant. However, she did act the lady of an o'er great house; revealing only in dribs and drabs the nub of the Cat he had once known and cherished.

"Robert," Stark breathed heavily at the end of her tale; clearly disturbed by the foolish notion that the King might have somehow been involved in arranging the attack on his wretched son. "Why would Robert … _Bran_ could never harm him."

This discomfort and confusion pleased Petyr greatly; and, tickled his sense of irony as well, because for a rarity the truth was more disruptive than a well-placed lie. If the news of Cersei and Jaime's disappearance had not reached King's Landing ahead of Cat, he knew he would have blamed Tyrion Lannister. How was Cat to know that the Imp would never have bet on his sweet brother losing … at anything. And hadn't the whoring, drunk dwarf openly proclaimed prior to the royal party's departure of his amusing desire to piss off the Wall; which would have necessitated a longer stay in the North than the King? A fast raven might have seen Tyrion imprisoned in Winterfell, an irate Tywin Lannister raising his banners to defend his unloved son, and the Kingslayer doing something delightfully violent to any Stark near him in revenge.

"I cautioned you before that the King was no longer the man you knew," Cat said carefully.

"Oh, Robert is many things, few of them noble," Petyr scoffed. "But this?" He shook his head vigorously. "No. For all his faults, the King still imagines himself a knight; though he acts more like one of my patrons down below. Besides, that is a distinct blade, did you see his Grace wear it on his belt while he was in Winterfell?"

Stark paused a moment to think. "No, he only used that hunting knife Jon Arryn gave him back when we fostered in the Eyrie." Still not satisfied, the wolf whimpered like a lost sheep, "Then who? Why?"

"Why, I could not say. But who? Start by asking who had access to the King's personal weapons? Blount, Trant, and the Kingslayer," Petyr declared, rattling off the Kingsguards on the trip. "His squires, the four Esquires of the Body who accompanied him North, his two privy grooms, his four privy pages, and mayhap also the Master of the Horse and the Serjeant of Tents – either of them could have sneaked it before or after Winterfell. A manageable list of suspects; though Ser Jaime may prove a tad difficult to question."

Stark's demeanor did not change at either mention of the missing Lion. Petyr could not decide whether that was significant or not. Though he tended to accept that Stark was naively too honorable for such dirty work, if the man firmly believed the twins responsible for his son's harm … well …

"There are several other Lannisters and Westerlanders in that number," Cat distrustfully pointed out; failing to recognize that the dagger might have been filched long before Robert ever left King's Landing for Winterfell. "Remember Lysa's words," she warned.

"You should not have told Littlefinger of that," Stark admonished her.

For this, Cat did rise to his defense. "When the gold cloaks brought me before Petyr, I did not know whether I faced friend or foe. He has treated me with more than mere courtesy or duty."

"By bringing you to a brothel," Stark complained.

"Where none would dream to look for the Lady of Winterfell. He has kept me safe and shone by word and by deed that he is again the brother I once lost."

"Cat," Stark warbled in disappointment at her judgement.

" _Cat, Cat, Cat,_ " Petyr warbled in disappointment to himself.

"How does my lord husband wish to proceed?" she asked proudly.

They stared at each other a while without speaking. Then, "I should go to Robert," Stark too trustingly announced, holding up the dagger

"Ned?" Cat gushed in fright at the idea.

"You should drop it in the nearest midden, Stark," Petyr suggested.

"Afraid of going to the King with me, Littlefinger" his mark challenged.

"No. I doubt he would summon Ser Ilyn for you; or me, I am not important enough to worry him. But his interest … or his wrath might be aroused. Difficult to say which is more likely. Would it bother you to lose the Handship? No, of course not. What of the betrothal of your sweet daughter to the Prince? What does your Sansa make of him? Joffrey can be quite charming when he wants to be; though overly pampered by Cersei … until of late, I suppose."

Again, more annoying silent looks passed between Cat and Stark. Had their highborn daughter already grown an affection for the horrible golden haired bastard? A pity the disappointment when she hears the truth of his parentage; either from a returned Stannis or Petyr, if setting the proper clues out would be advantageous. But set the clues for whom to discover?

"Very well," the decision somehow having been made. "I will look into this, quietly; until I learn more I will make no move."

"You are not so foolish as I first imagined, Stark," Petyr congratulated him.

"Petyr will help you," Cat volunteered.

"I can deny you nothing, Cat. I shall guide him for your sake."

"No," his mark contradicted her. "I am the Stark of Winterfell. My son … my wife have been attacked. They would both be dead were it not for a wolf pup found in the snow of the North. This is my quest," he nobly spouted rot and nonsense. "When I require Lord Baelish aid, I will ask it; only then."

"However, my lady, when the Hand commands; I must obey," he added contritely, bowing an apology towards Cat whilst also giving her a wink to show he had no intention of listening to her lord fool.

"Much as it pains me, your place is now back in Winterfell, Cat. There is little more here you can do than draw unwanted attention. You and Ser Rodrik must leave, quietly, in the morning. Bran, Robb, and Rickon need you. There may be more assassins before this is over."

"Oh, Ned. I wished for but a night with you and the girls," Cat said huskily; moving closer again; her breasts almost pressing against Stark's chest. This time he succeeded in grasping her hands and raised them to hold against his cheeks.

"Allow me to let you have your farewell in private."

"Petyr," Cat said with warmth and nothing more as she turned to look at him.

Perhaps she intended to come to him to thank him, but Petyr would not suffer it and started moving down to the other end of the room. "No, nothing need be said, Cat. Horses, supplies, and money will be ready for you and Ser Rodrik in the morn. And, Stark, take your time saying goodbye; I've all night," he quipped.

"Isn't the door over there?" Stark asked, pointing towards the door and stairs that they had come up through.

"A mockingbird must have more than one way to fly away," he grinned, pushing another disguised button to unlock a different hidden door into and out of the safe-room.

* * *

As soon as the door shut, he pressed yet a third hidden button to open another secret passageway, this one to a narrow tunnel that followed the back length of the entire safe-room. The passage had a third way to egress from the whorehouse; as well as several spying points into the room through which to watch and listen. Many a late night upon wishing Cat "sweet dreams," he had slipped in to watch her pace, read, undress, bath, robe, and sleep. Might he soon see her fuck Stark's cock of ice as well?

Not yet. Words were being spoke. Passionate, but not amorous.

"It is one thing for Tywin Lannister to say he does not believe you had anything to do with the Queen and Ser Jaime's disappearance, Ned. But t'is something else entirely to believe the vile Old Lion meant his words," Cat signaled.

"I agree. I trust him not a whit either. Nevertheless, Lannister also affirmed conviction in a conspiracy meant to bring our two houses to war; dragging the Riverlands into the middle of it."

"A ruse. Nothing more. Lysa warned us …"

"Lannister knew!"

"About Lysa's message?"

"Not that we received a warning from her specifically. But he guessed that a missif had been delivered trying to stoke the flames between us."

"A guess, then. A lucky guess; no matter how clever he is."

"Does not the disappearance of Cersei and the Kingslayer cast suspicion on our house after what befell Bran? We know we are innocent of it. But others might use it against us. I do not trust the South."

"Who, though? Why?"

"Lannister also showed me the debt the Iron Throne owes Casterly Rock."

"And?"

"Near two million dragons."

"Gods. Its worse than we thought. What has Robert been doing? Do you think Robert is looking for cause to go to war with the Lions to avoid the debt?"

"I … no. I refuse to find my friend so devious. Besides, Lannister seems to hardly care about the debt at all. This is why I mentioned it. Did Littlefinger give you any cause for thinking _he_ had issue with Casterly Rock."

"No. Petry told me some of the mistrust Lysa shared with him right before she returned to the Vale. Nothing outright damning, I fear. And he freely acknowledged Cersei sought at every opportunity to place her father's leal banners in positions here at court."

"With Jon dead, did Littlefinger worry his own place on the Small Council might be in danger."

"Only in passing. He claimed he knew too much, which official was bribed by which lord, to be gotten rid of."

"Mayhap that is it then."

"What is, Ned? Why all the questions about Petyr? We are worried about the Lannisters, not our friends."

"That is just it. Lannister, with ink, wax, and seal, offered to revoke Casterly Rock's debt if I executed both Varys and Littlefinger."

Surprise and shock suddenly filled Petyr. He grasped about for what possible clues of his intent could have fallen into Tywin Lannister's paws. Westeros would burn, and the first blow must go against the Westerlands. But the only important questions right now were what did Stark intend to do about the brilliant offer and how would the Mockingbird respond.


	10. Chapter 9

**ROBERT POV**

The thunder of hooves echoed painfully through his skull. He could see but little; and that spotty at best for his visor must be down. A dull ache throbbed in his chest. A weight pressed into his gut. And his legs were twisted beneath him; intertwined and trapped with something. Had he been struck? Fallen off his horse? His brain was foggy, foggy, foggy.

He couldn't remember. Where was he? Who was he fighting?

His sword hand twitched. He grasped something thick in it … at least he had not lost his warhammer.

The fight was not lost. He could still show the bastards who the King was.

In a minute … so tired … his arms felt leaden by his side.

Panic suddenly swept him. Was this death?

How many puny fucks had he taken with him? He must know. He must.

Tongue flicked out from parched mouth to run over his lips as he prepared for the final struggle. His shield arm rose; wobbling, though he held no shield in it. His hand reached near his face and touched … silk, not steel.

Fingers tore away to reveal in the light of morning … a lady's small clothes.

He was in his bed.

How much had he drunk last … " _What's this?_ " he thought. The lumps between his legs and the hammer he had thought he clutched was a woman. The swirl of her thick ebon tresses splayed across his hairy belly. " _Big poonts._ " He released his grip to reveal a mass of milky white flesh topped by a wide red areola. " _Huge poonts!_ " He quickly reassessed.

Again he tried to remember, but failed. His head still pounded something fierce.

From this angle, he didn't recognize her. " _Wonder who this one is?_ " he thought irritably. Why was she still here? His Esquires were supposed to see the sluts out before he awoke. And Robert could fucking well see day light streaming in through the windows of his privy sleep chamber and past the curtains hanging down from the four posters of the bed.

If he could recollect which pair were supposed to be on duty, he would have sworn an oath to kick their miserable arses later on the training ground. As it was, he'd make the lives of all fourteen of them miserable instead; as soon as he could think up a fitting punishment. For Robert positively loathed when the hussies sneaked a chance to say "good-bye" to him. Be they ladies or actual whores or any sort of saucy tart in-between they all invariably wept and said such annoying words. " _Oh, don't make me leave. Oh, I love you Robert. Oh, when will I see you again? Oh, what if I'm pregnant? Oh, I'm so sorry for you for the Queen._ "

Blah, blah, blah. He wondered why he even bothered bedding the emotional little morts. He could feel himself starting to twitch already in anticipation of this one's coming removal and inevitable display of tears … of pitiful words. If these disturbing scenes happened any more frequently, it would seriously make him consider taking a vow to only fuck Silent Sisters … if attractive ones could actually be found underneath those drab, neutering grey robes and cowls they perpetually wore.

He then pondered stealthily wriggling away himself. He could armor up and go hammer away his frustration on whichever deserving miscreant of an Esquire put him in this position. But then Ned would find him. Why his friend refused to have a dram of fun, Robert did not understand.

Or he could have a page fetch him Lord Josmyn. It was, after all, the Master of Revels job to keep him entertained. But he wasn't in the mood for Harys the Harp or Moonboy or whatever same old shit the Stormlander called for when unprepared. Sadly, it was early yet for some serious drinking; unless Thoros was around. Could always count on the red priest being ready at a moment's notice for a good binge or a brawl.

But then Ned would find him. Give him that look. Blast his frigid Northern soul. The man should be happy now that word had come of his son Bran waking up and having his wits about him; if not his legs. "Why is the Red Keep suddenly so small when the Eyrie was always so big?" he barked angrily; smashing a fist down onto the bed in frustration.

"Your awake," a sultry voice announced from beneath a mound of sheets and pillows to his side; and, not from the head of black hair resting near his cock.

"What?" Robert erupted in surprise. How many more strumpets might be hidden in ambush about his kingly sized bed?

"Don't tell me you forgot about Esmerelda?" a delicious red head asked, pushing her naked body out of the mass surrounding her.

He stared at her two delicate nubbin of tits sporting very erect, very pointy rose coloured nipples. He licked his lips, wishing for a spot of wine. "Esmerelda, I promise I could never forget you, lass," he practically purred.

A wide, cock sucking grin spread across ruby, cock sucking lips. "I hope you and Tati didn't get started without me," she giggled seductively; and began stalking like a lio … a panther across the feather mattress towards the mighty stag.

" _Tati? Esmerelda?_ " They must be whores, for the names did nor ring a bell in his tender noggin and the red head's pretty face was certainly not familiar. "No love. I must have warn her out," he boasted with boyish charm.

"You were a beast," Esmerelda agreed and threw herself the last bit of distance at him.

Robert's arms shot out to catch her and draw her in to his lips. His tongue thrust into her mouth. She ran her fingers through his hair, clutching their faces tighter together. He could hear her pant. Instantly, the lethargy began draining away from his body and a surge of blood flowed to his horn. He'd soon have a tine ready to pierce the ravishing minx.

"No fair. You started without me," Tati, it must be Tati, complained from down below; stirring and shifting between Robert's legs – her bountiful dugs stroking his hips.

The stag pulled the red headed panther off his lips to laugh, "There's more than enough of me for the two of you."

"Oh, yes," the ebon haired temptress between his legs agreed; placing her hands about his growing cockstand to slide them up and down and up and down.

"Oh, yes," Robert agreed as well right before sinking back into Esmerelda's wine-coloured lips. This was oh so much more fun than being nagged by Ned.

* * *

The door to the sleeping chamber opened and instead of an esquire, a groom, a squire, or even a lowly page bearing more food and drink; in swept a whistling Renly. "Hello, lovelies," his brother drawled with a lecherous grin of his mouth and a pointed waggling of his eyebrows upon spying Robert breaking fast at table with the half-clad Tati and Esmerelda perched on either knee.

Robert pulled the goblet away from his lips to point out, "You're up early." The last dalliance between the three of them had been at the surprisingly unexpected time of not yet an hour past dawn. Normally he did not wake for at least another two hours after that.

"I am yet to bed," Renly admitted, before quipping, "And no doubt you've been _up_ several times yourself, if I am any judge, brother." A pause and another purposeful grin. "Or should these naughty does be roundly spanked for merely teasing the royal stag instead of rutting with him?"

"Oh, we've been naughty alright, milord," Tati agreed and reached in between the folds of Robert's robe to clutch and stroke at Robert's well satiated cock.

"I never say no to a hard rutting … or a spanking, when the mood suits me, milord," the red head concurred salaciously.

"My, my, you've outdone yourself this time, Robert," Renly stated with envy, coming to a stop beside the table. His brother reached out and fondled one of Esmerelda's slim, taut breasts; pinching a nipple to bring a brief squeal from her. Then he bobbed a slight bow at the much more bosomy whore sitting on his other knee and said, "I beg your pardon Lady … ?"

"Tati," the raven haired harlot answered.

"Lady Tati, but really, I fear anything more than a handful is a waste," his brother explained apologetically, while not relinquishing his hold on the other's modest nubbin.

In defense of her big titted friend, Esmerelda's hand shout out to the crotch of Renly's hunter green embroidered velvet pants and proclaimed, "Then you've no fear of being wasteful either, milord."

Both Robert and Renly immediately started to roar with mirth at the jab.

Renly recovered first and declared, "Hohoho, I like this one, Robert. May I keep her?"

"Didn't dip your cock last night, did you?" Robert teased.

"It got wet enough," Renly smirked back.

"You might find me a bit … stretched for your needs, milord," the fiery haired whore continued with her verbal onslaught.

Renly assuredly laughed all the more for the blow at his manhood and slipped a ring off his finger. "Here, you impudent wench," he announced, handing the gold trinket to her. "Go find a page who will take you to my apartments. I would speak with my brother alone."

Esmerelda looked up at him questioningly. Robert nodded his head once. She eagerly leapt up, vigorously pressed her sweet lips against his once, and then scurried off to evidently seek a bit more of her clothing.

"And what of me, milord?" Tati pouted visibly; the hand massaging his horn coming to a stop.

" _Oh, here comes the scene_ ," Robert predicted to himself.

"And what of you, sweetling?" Renly challenged back breezily. "Isn't an evening … and morning, pleasant spent its own reward?"

"T'was more than passably fun," she agreed with a hint of hesitation.

"Then remember it well when you are buying yourself something pretty, alright?" Renly said and tossed a small jingly pouch at Tati and her tits.

Her hand flew out of his robe to help catch her payment as fast as a greedy smile broached her plump lips.

"Now begone, wench. The King has business with his younger, more handsome brother."

And off too she flew from Robert's lap. He enjoyed watching her ample arse and teats bend and sway in retrieving her garments and then exiting the chamber hand-in-hand with her friend.

Alone at last with him, Renly let out a large exhale and complained, "Seriously, Robert, I fail to understand your enthusiasm for quim built like wet nurses. I find all the accompanying jiggling a distraction from the hard business at hand."

"Ha. Limit yourself that way and some night that's all you'll be left with Renly, your hand."

His brother gave an exaggerated shiver and answered, "Gods forfend that fate."

Robert couldn't help chuckling at his amusing brother. "I've a mind to arrange a betrothal for you to …"

"Stop!" Renly cried in mock horror.

Grinning, he took pity and acquiesced. Instead, he picked up the goblet for another draught.

Renly picked the half empty bottle up off the polished cedar to look at the label. "Bah, I had better last night," he complained, but nevertheless poured himself some into an empty glass already used by one of the departed tarts.

"So where did you go?" Robert asked. He was curious. His current circumstances had not permitted him even one of his usual sprees into the city. " _It would look poorly on you_ ," Ned had chastised him. And him just back from six Gods forsaken months to and back from the North.

"Oh, _Blind Cryer's_ for dice. Came out a few stags short after being a dozen dragons up thanks to a damned Lyseni who had the most unbelievable run of luck. Next it was on to the _Cockpit_. We didn't stay long. Old Feor even admitted he had an uninspiring lot of beasts lined up to fight. Ha! Robar got slapped in the street by a whore on our way to _Drunk Dunk's_. After several rounds the lads were feeling a bit randy, so we went off to _The_ _Orchid Petal_."

"Not _The_ _Blue Pearl_?" Robert asked. Of course he knew of the _Petal_ , but the _Pearl_ was well known as Renly's favorite haunt for flesh sport.

"Littlefinger suggested it."

Robert's eyebrows rose in surprise at that.

Renly shrugged. "Littlefinger's an even more droll and obliging a fellow when drunk than I could have imaged," he said with a low chuckle. "He is fitting in surprisingly well with my herd of bucks."

"He doesn't own the _Petal_ , does he?" That his Master of Coin was the enterprising owner of many brothels was a well-known and accepted fact.

Another soft laugh. "No. Claimed he would never take any of us to one of his establishments for fear what we'd do to him if any of us got accidentally poxed."

Robert snickered at the truth of that as Renly waved a hand to indicate he was continuing his night's tale of drink and debauchery. "Anyway, Petyr said the _Petal_ had recently gotten a pair of sisters, twins supposedly, from Yi Ti. But more important, as we were all a bit in our cups by that point, it was a much shorter stumble from _Dunk's_."

"Were you sorry lot more drunk or more horny?" Robert snickered.

"Both. And quite a lot," Renly agreed with a laugh.

"And were they twins?"

"How could you tell?" his brother tittered. "Yi Ti all look alike, don't they?"

"Were their slits slanted?" Robert asked with serious curiosity. He'd never slept with a Yi Ti lass before. He wondered how tilting a passage like that would feel on his cock.

"Alas, I did not find out," Renly said sadly.

"What!?" Robert bellowed in vast disappointment.

"They were such exotic creatures each of us wanted one."

"Don't tell me you diced for them," Robert groaned.

"We did. I thought my roll of three and one would hold, but Ser Jae and Lord Franklyn each bested my throw."

"Brother, never gamble when quim is at stake," Robert cautioned him. Then laughed, "No wonder you were forced to rely on your hand."

"Fear not for what crevice my seed fell, brother," Renly responded. "But as we waited for Madame Blossom to bring out a line of ravishing creatures for us _hard_ luck losers to choose from, I heard the most curious song. The tune went something like this," and his brother began whistling the same notes Robert recognized that Renly had been humming when he entered the room.

The melody was catchy enough, Robert supposed; but failed to see why his brother was bothering. When Renly looked at him inquisitively, he simply shrugged to show his indifference.

Apparently undeterred, his brother said, "The song is called 'The Cubs in Golden Fleece.' The words go something like this." And Renly began to sing.

* * *

Robert hummed the chorus as he descended the single level of the circular Alysanne's Stairs from his Withdrawing Rooms. Ser Mandon alone stalked silently behind him. A short bark had left the usual accompanying riffraff behind with an order to continue amusing themselves in the Inner Audience Chamber until his return. The Serjeant of the Privy Chambers had then duly taken station at the top step to insure no knave gainsaid him.

" _And the three who were none_

 _In their fleeces of gold_

 _Played and grew bold_

 _While the Sentinel sat dumb_ "

He had not yet been on _her_ floor of Maegor's Holdfast in the three and ten days since returning. But according to his Chamberlain, the children should still be in their apartment despite the morning's lessons with the Maester of Scrolls having already ended. Or had it been with old Pycelle?

He was no longer certain. His head hurt. Being King was complicated. Everyone bothering him for something or about something. Ned was turning out to be the worst of the lot; wanting to remove half the court. He could scarcely think properly or drink in peace through the uproar. Flunkies constantly petitioning him to keep their sinecures. His Esquires, instead of focusing on his entertainment, pestered him on behalf of their friends. And of his Esquires, Ned only seemed to care for Ser Ryman Portman; a Northman naturally.

Well, regardless, Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella bloody well better be there. It was Lord Willem Bogg's damned duty to know these things so Robert didn't have to bother. Why else did Littlefinger dole out all that blasted silver to the pages, ushers, grooms, and clerks reporting to the Chamberlain; or, for that matter to that mirthless prick of a Steward of his, Lord Harwin, either? He didn't intend to tromp his royal arse over the whole Red Keep looking for his own sprogs.

The Red Cloak standing proper guard at the bottom of Alysanne's Stairs smartly saluted the unexpected arrival of his King. The edge of Robert's eye barely registered the page or usher further down the corridor who immediately rushed off to inform the _other_ household in Maegor's of his presence.

He avoided the most direct route to the children's apartment suite. That entrance was opposite a door to _her_ privy chambers; always insistent on keeping the blonde haired darlings chokingly close.

" _And Crook-mauler slinked in_

 _His yellowbelly low to the glade_

 _Whilst the Sentinel patrolled away_

 _Sun-face lusting him again._ "

Robert ended the verse and chuckled to himself; nothing more amusing than a song about a cuckold.

"Your Grace. How may I help you?" Ser Tybolt inquired. The sneaky lion having stepped out a door just ahead of Robert; bringing him to a stop in the maze of passageways the fucking Targs had loved littering the Keep with.

"I've come to see my children," he commanded _her_ maternal uncle and household Chamberlain.

"Of course. Prince Tommen is in the nursery."

Nursery! The boy was seven for Gods' sake! At seven Robert had spent each day out of Storm's End riding and hawking when not inside it on the training sand sparring against the noble born pages fostered to his father. "And Joffrey," he growled.

"Escorting Lady Sansa about the Keep."

Well ... Robert decided he couldn't get angry about _that_. Ned's girl was as fine a looking she-cub in auburn that a Stag of any colour could desire. The lad just better keep his hands to himself if he knew what was good for him.

"And Princess Myrcella is praying with Septa Lelia, your Grace," Tybolt Lannister tacked on.

"Fine, fine," Robert muttered. Bloody praying. He couldn't interrupt that; t'would be sacrilegious and unknightly of him.

"Allow me to announce you to Prince Tommen," the oversized lady's bodice stuffed with suet instead of a lion pronounced.

A grin spread across Robert's lips. He clapped Ser Tybolt heavily on the shoulder and easily moved the smaller man aside as he declared, "I'll announce myself."

* * *

" _This isn't so bad_ ," Robert thought with relief upon first glimpse inside the nursery. He stood and silently watched his son play a while.

"Poppa!" Tommen squealed in delight on finally looking up to spy him in the doorway.

His youngest jumped up, knocking over several of the toy knights, horses, and men-at-arms painted in many different houses colours that were lined-up around a small fort of blocks, and ran at him. Robert clasped the boy in his big hands and, to much laughing, twirled him up and about his head like a warhammer.

"I missed you," his son professed between giggles.

"I missed you too," he said, setting the boy down and ruffling his mane of blond hair. Then, pointing at the groups of soldiers, he asked, "How goes the battle?"

"Badly, I fear. The Dragons have the hero trapped."

He pretended to frown. Those toys surrounding the improvised castle of blocks did mainly wear surcoats of red and black. "That does sound horrible. But can he not escape or win the fray by killing the enemies' warlord?"

Tommen solemnly shook his head no.

"Why not? He's the hero isn't he? That's what heroes do."

His son nibbled his lower lip. "It's not what you did here, poppa."

"I didn't?" Robert asked loudly; quite perplexed by his son's statement.

"No. Your friends saved you. Come, see," Tommen insisted, pulling on Robert's hand to draw him closer to the painted figures strewn across the floor. "Look over the hill," the boy urged him, pointing at a sizeable group hidden behind a couple of pillows on the floor. "It's the Lords Hands. Both of them. Old Lord Jon and new Lord Ned," he explained.

"Ahhhh," Robert drawled in recognition. Though it had actually been Hoster Tully instead of Jon at the Battle of the Bells. Only the Vale's van, under Denys Arryn, had made it far enough into the Riverlands to help with the counterattack to free him from the trap. He licked his lips and suddenly he was there again; hidden by the whores of the _Peach_ as Connington's bastards scoured Stoney Sept's cellars and attics for him. The cries from those caged and those tortured to give him up ringing through the long night and into the overcast morning echoed again in his ears. Coming out of the momentary trance, he agreed, "You're right, Tommen. Even a hero needs friends."

"Help me, poppa. Let's defeat the evil prince together," his son begged.

He didn't have the heart to tell the boy that Rhaegar hadn't been there either. Only the Griffin, who cut open Hoster's sword arm and buried an axe in poor Denys' chest before Robert could smash his way through the crowd to drive his traitorous banner lord off. "Alright, I will," he cheerily agreed, climbing down to his knees.

"Good. Now you play the evil prince," Tommen commanded.

Robert blinked in surprise. "I …" he began to protest and then swallowed his words at the boy's pleading look. So the Demon of the Trident began methodically pushing around the Targaryen coloured cloaks as they searched; periodically upending one of the blocks that lay in a circle about the middle block. His powerful hands only purposefully crushed one of the red and black knights out of long lingering spite.

"Don't get too close," Tommen chastised him once, worried that Robert might knock the toy representing himself off his feet atop the very middle block – visible to all; which Robert very much had not been until near the end of the nasty brawl.

Robert smiled and started humming Renly's tune again. He had never ridden into battle without a little wine and a song on his lips. But at the Bells, he had run screaming to the fight stone cold sober while reeking of fermented grape fumes; for sweet little Pansy had hidden him in a smuggler's false bottom of a giant hogshead vat half full of piss sour Dornish red. After the war, he had heard she'd born a black haired doe that resembled him more than a little.

"What's that song, Poppa?"

"Why its …" he paused. Most songs Robert enjoyed really weren't right for a young boy. "It's about three cubs being raised by a watchdog who thinks he sired them by a wolf dame, when they are really fully wolf."

"Funny," Tommen laughed and returned to moving his troops out for the attack.

"Better hurry, the dragons are getting close," he warned with a hiss, pretending not to notice the knights arraying in perfect order a top their mounts to charge down on the "unsuspecting" Targaryen men-at-arms.

There had been little in the way of cavalry charges at Stoney Sept. A town not being conducive to the standard knightly maneuver in war. It had simply been uncoordinated masses of men slugging it out in streets, in buildings, where ever a modicum of shelter could be found to defend stoutly, or when one hodgepodge group of banners trapped an outnumbered number of the foe.

Nor had it been a particularly cat laden battle, Robert recalled; his attention distracted to watch in rapt fascination as a yellow tabby stealthily crossed the matted floor, slinking from concealing table leg to chest to pillow – tail up and quivering in excitement.

"Tommen …" he started to warn.

The tabby pounced in a streak of gold.

Much of his son's order of battle flew through the air or was knocked over.

"Ser Lionfur, nooooooo!" his son wailed. Tears forming.

Robert shook his head in annoyance; his youngest was more pussy than stag.

* * *

Myrcella gently placed a plain, narrow bladed dagger on the small alter alongside the statue of the _Warrior_ and then knelt on a Myrish rug. Head tilted downward, so that her golden hair draped forward to hid her features, she began to pray, "You are not a woman's god, Ser Lord; but I pray that you join with the _Mother_ and the _Father_ to guard mother and Uncle Jaime." Voice quivering a bit, her words came to a stop.

Robert had already watched her finish her prayers, both spoken and silent, in front of the _Chrone_. Of the table and sculpture pairings in each of the seven corners of the Queen's Privy Sept, six of them now bore offerings. Only the _Stranger_ yet stood ungifted. " _Would she?_ " Robert wondered uncomfortably; ignoring any thoughts of his own on that question over the last forty days.

After the long silent pause, she continued on, but, again, only briefly, "Place courage in their hearts and strike fear in those of their tormentors; smiting the evil villains with the sword of justice."

Despite being only eight name days old, his daughter looked just like her mother. And just as fierce too. But, praise the _Maiden_ , with a much, much sweeter temperament. He repressed a snicker on realizing that all but a few of the many brutish men he had slain over the years, ironborn mostly – the heathen scum, would also have proven sweeter than _her_.

"And help free the righteous so that they might come home safely to me or … gain solace by ascending to the SevenHeavens … from which to watch down and guard over me."

Righteous. A word, like sweet, that Robert did not associate with _her_ either. Oh, like him, _she_ attended the Royal Sept or Baelor's when ceremony or practicality for the sake of the Iron Throne demanded it. But had he ever heard of _her_ spending any time in this privy sept? No. _She_ probably only did so when he went off to war … or to hunt. " _Doubt she was praying for me to come home safely,_ " he thought unattractively.

"And watch down over poor Tommen."

The boy was fine. Not that he couldn't do with a little watching over and sprucing up from the _Warrior_. But by _her_? She coddled him near bad enough as Lysa did that milk sop runt Robyn; Gods help the Vale.

"And father."

Ha! Robert knew what he wanted that frigid lioness watching over … his bed. And all the willing quim he left satisfied and would continue to leave satisfied in it. How he even had as many as three children with the bitch, he could barely guess. Like sticking his cock in a sausage maker's grinder.

"And … and Joffrey too."

" _Hhhhmmmn, better go find the lad,_ " Robert quickly decided at mention of his eldest. So before Myrcella could raise off the floor and go over to the statue of the _Stranger_ … or not, he slipped out of the shadows around the door of the Sept and back into _her_ private solar.

Without a word to the waiting Ser Tytos, Robert left; Ser Mandon silently following behind at his wordless command as always. Once off _her_ dreary floor in Maegor's and heading for the drawbridge, his mood improved. And he began humming parts of that new song again.

" _Eyes which see yet still are blind_

 _For ebon fur breeds not a fleece of gold_

 _No matter how long the Sentinel beholds_

 _Lies are told so he seeks naught to find_ "

Nothing funnier than a stupid cuckold.

* * *

"I made the right choice," he declared, well pleased, to the breeze crossing over the curtain wall of the Red Keep and the near mute Ser Mandon. Anything else with ears was fifty feet to his left, fifty feet to his right, or fifty feet below him.

The usual rabble had swarmed him has he began crossing the dry moat out of Maegor's. Thankfully no sign of Ned. So to annoy the tiresome lot of flunkies and work off the dull throb in his belly, he had decided to search for sign of Joffrey and his betrothed from on high.

The Rookery was the nearest external facing tower to the holdfast, so he'd made old Pycelle near shit himself with surprise and worry by entering it – the very rarest of occurrences; but only to use its stairs to reach the top of the wall. Then a stroll half way around the entire Keep: past the White Sword Tower – a nod to a curious Ser Barristan, the Dungeon Tower – where even muter Ser Ilyn came to stare at him, the Steward's Tower – and a brief chat of memories of the Vale with Lord Harwin, and lastly the Exchequer Tower – where he japed with Littlefinger on what he had heard of his night's exploits with Renly.

He hadn't understood half the complaints Ned was quietly telling him in private about Baelish; such an entertaining lordling. Besides, Jon had trusted him for years to find the dragons and stags needed; and no one else had complained about the Master of Coin, as far as he had ever heard.

Now, Varys, there was a fleece – "fleece", ha! the Spider was bald – of a different colour. Of course no lord dared complain openly about the Master of Whisperers; for fear he would sic his little birds to discover the lord's secrets. They all had secrets; the Eunuch had proven that to Robert long ago.

Regardless of that fact, Robert could care less whether Ned had Payne shorten the mincing perfume ball a neck. If only his friend would cease badgering him about all the other changes to the Iron Throne he wanted to make. Shut up or be done with it. Robert didn't care which.

His stroll had ended on sighting the grey furred Lady parting the crowd in the Outer Yard. Not that blonde haired Joffrey or red haired Sansa or the scar faced Hound accompanying her weren't distinctive in their own rights. But a fucking direwolf, now that caught the eye. No doubt about it.

Since Winterfell, Robert had, on occasion, pondered what might have been if Lya had had such a magnificent beast by her side. Rhaegar and Dayne and Whent would have thought twice about grabbing her; and would have been lucky to have escaped with their wretched balls, if not their lives, if they'd dared tried.

And finally the two houses – wolf and stag – were at last to be joined as they ought to have been sixteen years ago. Robert took great pleasure in watching Joffrey and Sansa together. A handsome pair. She-cub and Stag-kid. He enjoyed watching them together, like now. His eldest acting the proper gallant to the maid; and not the bully he took after from _her_.

At least the rightness of this betrothal was something that he and his friend could agree on. Of course Sansa and her older brother didn't have the true colouring of a Stark wolf, like his Lya had had. Mud red Trout instead of the proper black-grey of a wolf. Though Ned had the other two, and his bastard, who had the look and the colouring to prove Catelyn hadn't snuck any hanky panky behind Ned's back, like in the song. Ha!

Staring down fondly at Joffrey and Sansa, he wondered which parent their children would take more after. If he had married Lya, they'd have had more than three nippers. He knew that much. And each one's hair would have been dark as night.

But instead of a wolf, he had married a bitch lion; and she had given him three golden haired …

Wait.

Robert rapidly ran through the lyrics of Renly's song in his head.

"Wolf" wasn't ever said. Neither was "sheep" for that matter, though the use of "fleece" was suggestive.

But what other creature would a Sentinel guard a herd against?

And what other predator than a "wolf" gave birth to "cubs?"

"Cubs" with "golden fleece?"

Let alone three?

A towering rage to match near anything he'd ever felt before swarmed up from a place he'd forgotten still dwelled inside him.

"FUCK ME!" He bellowed with such a roar that every living creature in the Outer Yard below jerked to a stop and looked up to where the scream came from.

HE WAS NOT A CUCKOLD!

And Robert would be damned to the darkest recesses of the SevenHells if he would let anyone get away with suggesting it.

"I'M GOING TO KILL THAT BARD!" His promise thundered to the skies. No one mocked Robert Baratheon and fucking lived to tell about it.

* * *

"Why hasn't the singer been found!" he yelled at Slynt.

The man's jowls and piggy eyes quivered at Robert's rage. But at least the cunt who commanded his Gold Cloaks had the stones to not piss himself and answer.

"Your Grace, the patrol has barely returned from the Orchid Petal with word that the singer is neither there nor at the hovel the whore house owner claims he lives in."

"From my experience its too early for song to enhance a man's humors and too late from a bard to still be a bed, no matter how late he works," Littlefinger said casually.

"Shut your face before I bash it in Baelish!" Robert threatened. "Its your fault Slynt's men got such a piss poor description of this treacherous singer."

"His hands and eyes were both rather occupied last night, if I remember, Robert," his brother quipped. "All of ours were, to be honest. It was a brothel."

"I'm going to smash you first, Renly," he promised. "You weren't so busy you didn't memorize the damned song. And think to come sing it to me."

"I never realized," his brother said, the picture of innocence.

"You're fucking useless."

"Robert, is this really necessary," Ned protested.

"Damned straight it is. No one makes a fool of me."

"And perhaps no one did," Ned suggested; too clearly trying to soothe his anger.

"Lord Stannis once suggested arresting all the whores in King's Landing, your Grace," Littlefinger interjected.

"Arse," Robert murmured.

"Why not simply arrest _all_ the singers," the short man continued.

"There far fewer singers than whores," Slynt agreed quite seriously.

"WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING HERE!" Robert bawled at the fool.

"Your pardon, your Grace," he squeaked and quickly backed away to the door of the Small Council chamber.

"Your Grace," another voice entered the mix from the now unbarred entrance.

"What is it Pycelle!?" He snapped. "Have you of all of us miraculously found this damned minstrel trying to make a fool of me?"

"No, your Grace. I have another message from Darry, your Grace."

"What of it?" Robert snarled. He was busy. And Tywin sent a fucking useless raven every day. Besides, he'd already drunk the only bottle anyone had been clever, but not clever enough cause it was now empty without a replacement to be seen, to bring to him.

"I fear you must read this one, your Grace. Dark wings, dark words," the Grand Maester promised.

"WHAT!?" he shouted in surprise, thrusting himself out of his chair which promptly fell over. He kicked it out of his way and rushed over to the doddering busybody. The slight parchment was snatched from aging, trembling hands.

 _To Robert Baratheon; King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; and, Protector of the Realm:_

 _Your Grace, it pains me beyond words to tell you that the bodies of my beloved daughter, your dutiful wife, Cersei, and my beloved son, Jaime, were recovered from where they had been most cruelly slain, laden down with rocks, and sunk deep in the Trident. But of the fiends who have committed this heinous act, frustratingly, there is still no sign nor clue._

 _On the morrow, I shall begin the sad procession of returning their bones to King's Landing so that my children may be blessed on their journey to the SevenHeavens by the High Septon. And to honor them as devoted off-spring of Casterly Rock, immediately after the ceremony in the Great Sept of Baelor, House Lannister will, with your royal permission, host and pay for a four day Funerary Tourney to celebrate these magnificent lives cut horribly short_

 _Your most obedient banner,_

 _Lord Tywin Lannister; Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West_

The _Stranger_ had decided after all.

Reading the words, Robert wasn't sure of what he felt.

Relief?

Sadness?

A hollow kind of emptiness somewhere deep inside, certainly.

And a vague sense of interest.

Could a man truly be considered a cuckold with a dead wife?

Hhhmmmnnn.

Robert's mind moved on.

A funeral tourney? What a blasted grand idea! Why hadn't anyone ever thought that up before?


	11. Chapter 10

**CATELYN POV**

While High Summer would end in a fortnight for the tenth time without sign of an oncoming Autumn, the temperatures in the Riverlands had not yet begun to moderate for the shorter days of the approaching Late Summer. The heat made for pleasant riding; especially as an aid during the near week of steady rain that had ended only two days earlier. However, Catelyn found it too warm when combined with the plain grey wool cloak and hood she wore that morning while breaking bread in the inn's common room.

Across from her at the roughhewn table, his eyes periodically sweeping between all the oblong chamber's doors; Ser Rodrik looked far more miserable due to the heat thanks to his pure Northron blood. His grey stubbled cheeks were already pink with heat. Instantly, she noted both sounds behind her and the tension in his vigilant face ease ever so slightly.

Then, thrice he tapped the already heavily scored pine board beside his trencher with his eating knife.

Catelyn lowered the slice of sausage she had been about to place in her mouth and inquired softly, "Father?"

He smiled at the now familiar deception that had begun when the unrelenting showers had at last driven them to seek shelter at night in whatever convenient lodgings appeared near dusk on the Kingsroad; instead of sleeping swamped in some thicket or gully in which they erected the leaky canvas tents they had purchased in Stokeworth Town. "Those two sellswords are leaving," he answered just as quietly.

The ugly pair of cutthroats had already been seated when Catelyn and Rodrik came down the stairs with their gear; and had perused them a tad more than normal curiosity warranted for fellow travelers. The remaining customers of _Whent Away_ , hastily chewing their food before getting an early start on the road, were an unimposing lot of industrious smallfolks: three merchants, a master glassblower, a brewer, a journeyman cooper, two masons, and their servants or apprentices.

"Let us watch which way they go," Catelyn cautioned.

"Of course, daughter. Your father is no fool," the doughty older warrior smirked back at her; though his eyes had already returned to furtively scanning the inn.

Much as she now wished to slip the confining hood off her head, she kept it in place to continue hiding her vibrant Tully red hair. So instead, she picked up the chipped mug holding her sassafras tea and turned in order to seemingly stare with indifference out the cloudy, warped window nearest their table.

Even distorted through the glass, the vision beyond of the merest visible sliver of the Riverlands well pleased her. Strikingly green fields full of beans and clover. Golden fields of ripe wheat ready to be reaped. Tall, thick branched trees supporting canopies heavy with fat leaves rather than thin needles. Happy, well-fed children playing. She prayed that war would not come. That the old Lion would not be rendered recklessly mad by the deaths of his children, but chastened to peace instead.

In less than ten minutes the two seedy ruffians had retrieved their little better than nag mounts, saddled them, loaded their sparse gear, and rode at a walk through the jumble dotting the inn's dirt courtyard; then, nudged the horses into a trot toward the main thoroughfare.

"Which way?" Ser Rodrik queried; refusing to so obviously crane his neck for a better look himself.

"A moment." Then, seeing the direction they turned on reaching the Harrenhal Road, she announced, "East, towards the Kingsroad."

"Good. We won't see them again."

"Unless they double back wide around. Or are reporting us for gold," Catelyn warned.

"Possibly," Ser Rodrik agreed. Hand automatically going up in thought to stroke the long whiskers that no longer adorned his face. "Regardless, time we rode, my la … daughter," he caught himself.

She said nothing; merely standing to show her agreement. They each lifted a heavy leather travel bag from the rush strewn floor. The strap dug uncomfortably into Catelyn's scarred palms before she could shift it her shoulder. The never ending dull pain a constant reminder of why she had journeyed south and why she now returned north. To her sons. To Winterfell. To … the home she had made.

On the way out, her leal banner, companion, guard, and friend stopped a moment to buy a half dozen more sausages and an equal number of peaches; giving the serving lad two halfgroats and a penny for the lot.

"They'll bruise," she chided the knight as he stuffed the yellowish-red orbs in his already full sack.

"Aye, but nothing's so sweet," he replied with an almost boyish grin completely incongruous with the Master-at-arms typical dour Northron persona.

There was much of what her husband's honorable Master-at-Arms had found below the Neck that he complained about. Or more often just silently disapproved. And little that he praised, except the wide varieties of lush, succulent, better than honey fruits that the South offered his stodgy ice-bound palate.

For Catelyn, when her belly had not been over full of duty and worry, she had feasted on long forgotten memories. The two weeks spent getting to know Petyr again; comparing the complicated, yet generous, lordling he had become with her recollections of the simple joyous boy had unlocked legion of them.

Complicated.

Nothing was any longer like the gentle, lazy days before Mother's death. Climbing the trees in the Godswood. Playing tag in the Great Hall. Father teaching her to ride. Swimming inside the Water Gate. Lessons with Septa. Dropping sticks into the Tumblestone to see if the waterwheel would pick them up. Taking turns with Lysa to marry Petyr in the Sept. Fishing from the banks of the Red Fork. Minstrels singing at dinner both in the Great Hall or the family apartment. Sitting in front of a roaring fire at night to listen to Uncle Brynden's tales of his knightly daring. Carrying little Edmure to bed. Mother singing lullabies. Staying awake late in bed to invent a secret language with her sister.

Everything was so much more complicated now.

How could she have ever guessed such an innocent game of her childhood would one day be used to smuggle such suspicion into her life. Poor Lysa. Petyr had explained the struggles her sweet sister had long suffered in King's Landing. Elderly Jon Arryn's single minded concentration on being Hand for the son of his heart. The many still births. The endless court intrigue. The purposeful snubs from the Queen. Young Robin's wretched health. The bullying of Lysa's son by Prince Joffrey. The growing Lannister influence over the crown's affairs. The threat to foster Robin at Casterly Rock.

Of Jon Arryn's final sickness, when she had innocently asked might it have been from poisoning, Petyr had refused to countenance it; though her friend had admitted that the Hand had seemingly begun to rally until the Grand Maester took over the physicking. Maester Pycelle was well known to have been Tywin Lannister's lickspittle back in evil Aerys' time.

All-in-all, the picture of Lysa that Petyr had sketched was far, far sadder and grim than the one painted in the too infrequent letters that passed between the sisters. Lysa had been lucky to at least have had a true friend in Petyr with whom she could confide on occasion. Though apparently not so deeply as now wished; for the news of the secret message Lysa had sent her in Winterfell had been a surprise to him. As had its accusation against the Lannisters. Not that Petyr fully dismissed it. " _There is a truthy sound to it, my lady._ "

Mounted at last themselves, Catelyn and Ser Rodrik slowly rode out of _Whent Away's_ stable, crossed over the inn's yard, and cautiously approached the beaten earth highway. There, a pair of itinerant brothers preached to a small crowd beside the nearby holdfast's village, one of the merchants from the inn lead a string of mules, and a couple of oxcarts moved in each direction were all the traffic visible at the moment.

Having overheard travelers' gossip two nights past of Tywin Lannister bearing the bones of Cersei and the Kingslayer south from Darry had made the choice of direction they would take an easy one the previous day when they came upon the Kingsroad's junction with the Harrenhal Road.

Wary of both Varys' almost magical little birds and Casterly Rock's daunting reach, Catelyn and Ser Rodrik had been riding disguised the moment they departed Petyr's establishment. More than once they had bought new horses, clothing, and gear in one town and turned around to trade or sell the old ones in the very next market so as to throw any possible pursuers off their trail. And until the weather proved too unrelenting, they had camped out at night under the stars; a pair of tents, so that they each slept privately, being the only allowance for propriety between them.

Pulling the reins gently, Catelyn turned her sturdy mare west. The detour would likely add at least a week to the already long passage north; but better that than to risk the _Stranger's_ fickle humour by purposefully treading within striking distance of the oncoming Old Lion's claws.

"Has my lady had a change of mind on announcing ourselves to her kin, Lady Shella?" Ser Rodrik asked politely. The knight was hoping for a colony of bat surcoat wearing Whent men-at-arms to join them as an honor guard to at least the Neck.

"No. I have not," she answered, her tone purposefully suggesting the power of the great lady that she was. Ned had bade her to only announce her presence after crossing the Neck; in order to secure Moat Cailin with Tallhart and Glover bowmen, to alert the Manderlys and other trusted banners, and to keep a close watch on Theon. Until then, they were to swim as quiet as trout so that the Lannisters would hear naught of her having come to warn him of the abominable attempt on Bran's life. She prayed to the _Seven_ that her sweet child still lived. Duty was hardest when family were at stake.

The news of Lord Tywin's presence in the Riverlands; and the many vile, calculated tricks Ned relayed that the dastardly Old Lion had tried playing on Sansa, Arya, Edmure, and Petyr had disturbed her, and her lord husband, greatly. And though Ned had been sorely tempted by Ser Rodrik's request that a quartet of Winterfell's guardsmen be surreptitiously added from his retinue for their venture back to Winterfell, ultimately her lord husband had decided that such an addition would not provide sufficient swords against the increased risk of discovery of a larger party by the Lannisters.

At least for Ser Rodrik's sake, her beloved had not commanded them to return north as well by the constantly rolling, capricious sea. "At Harrenhal we will move over to Harrow's Pike _alone_ ," she added, repeating again the plan she had decided upon the day before.

"Very good, my lady," the knight conceded gracefully. Nevertheless, she knew Ser Rodrik would also ask again. He was as tenacious as a guard dog or Bran's direwolf; a most worthy quality in a shield.

Which was not to say that the thought had not crossed her mind more than once that they reveal themselves and continue strongly escorted on this new westerly course. Harrenhall to Raventree Hall to Stone Hedge to the highway's end at the River Road; only a few days journey from her father, Edmure, and Riverrun. But that would not be despite her wishes.

So to placate herself, she drew out more happy childhood memories as the road left the village behind, and then their fields and pasturage. Slowly rising and falling with gentle hills. Passing through a small wood in which they kept extra close watch for signs of possible brigands or spies. Followed by more fields and the sporadic croft. All well maintained, hinting strongly at the wealth and strength of the Riverlands; over which her Father, sick though he was these past two years, ruled as Lord Paramount of the Trident. But, as much as with Ser Rodrik's prior request, that direction was not where her duty lie.

Once they were back safely in Winterfell, Catelyn had long since decided that her protector deserved a reward for his unquestioned loyalty and, aside from the seasickness, his unwavering strength. Ser Rodrik's pride would never permit him to seek nor accept any boon on his own behalf. However, with Sansa now betrothed to Joffrey – praise the _Maiden_ that according to Ned the lad had shown no inclination to bully her daughter like he had young Robin, only laud her with plaudits – there was now a bevy of dejected would be noble suitors in the North.

Her mind wandered a while over the various possibilities before settling on young Cley Cerwyn. He was kind and charitable and could do far worse than taking sweet Beth Cassel to wife. And at ten and four name days, the heir of Cerwyn could afford to wait the five or so years it would take for Ser Rodrik's darling girl to flower, to widen sufficiently in the hips, and to be tutored on being the lady of a noble house by Catelyn herself.

"My lady," Ser Rodrik hissed.

Pulled back from her wool gathering by the knight's warning, Catelyn jerked her eyes forward. A furlong and a half ahead of them, now just visible over the rise in the road they were currently ascending sat two riders on unmoving mounts in plain sight. Another fifty feet's progress forward revealed them to both be wearing crimson livery emblazoned with the golden Lannister lion.

"Red cloaks," Ser Rodrik snarled.

"Damn," she couldn't help blaspheming.

"I can hold them with a charge whilst you ride back to the holdfast near the inn," he stated with deadly earnest, though wisely making no premature move for his blade.

"And sit trapped there until Tywin Lannister comes himself with his banners? With the Mountain? No, Ser Rodrik. Let a kindly, aging father and his doting daughter travelling to come work for their cousin Ser Berant Terrick, the castellan of Harrenhal, bluff their way past this pair," she decided quickly; falling back on one of the stories they had worked out for themselves soon after leaving King's Landing.

On they rode unhurriedly, doing their level best to let no sign of unease betray them.

"Blast," Ser Rodrik swore and with the same breath pulled back his cloak to lay hand to sword pommel.

"What?" Catelyn cried nervously.

"More riders," he explained tersely, quickly nodding to his side of the road, where two more mounted men-at-arms spurred their horses out of a brush topped ravine slightly behind them. They too sported Lannister colors. "Follow me," he commanded and prodded his mare into a trot forward.

Catelyn followed behind, hand reaching beneath her own cloak to rest on the dagger she now always bore. When they came within a hundred feet or so of the ambush, she anticipated Ser Rodrik would accelerate to attack at a canter. She would then attempt to slip past and ride as if all the demons of the SevenHells were at her heels.

"What is the meaning of this!?" her protector yelled loudly. "Are you brigands or will you see the peace on Lady Whent's lands maintained?!" he challenged hotly. "I warn you, we are distant kin of her castellan! And Ser Berrant expects us anon!"

"Lord Lannister invites Lady Stark to speak with him," the answer came back loud and threatening; sending chills down Catelyn's back.

"Then go find her in Winterfell and leave humble smallfolks be!"

"Lord Lannister will have that which he seeks."

"You'll find no noble lady here, only my daughter. But you'll find me no mean blade despite my age if you dare try laying a hand on either of us!"

"Ser Rodrik, we seek no battle with you. Only to bring Lady Stark, safely, to my lord of Lannister, as he commanded us."

"When did a Lannister command anywhere in the Riverlands!? Such is for Lord Tully and Lord Tully alone to do!"

Instead of a blade, the apparent leader drew out a rolled parchment from his belt. "My lord has word of Lady Stark's son, Bran."

Fear instantly struck Catelyn's heart. "NO!" she screamed and raked her spurs desperately across the mare's flanks, causing the horse to leap ahead suddenly into a gallop.

"My lady!" Ser Rodrik shouted and unsuccessfully tried to snatch her reins as she flew past him.

The wind tore the hood off her head, revealing streams of dark, thick, blood red Tully hair.

* * *

Catelyn frustratingly spied the familiar Darry ploughman, the Roote double brown horses, and the Mooten red salmon, in addition to the Lannister Lion and many other Westerlands' flags, floating in the low breeze above various of the tents already sprung up for the approaching night's stay in a pasturage abutting the Kingsroad. Over the drainage ditch separating the two, and in between fence posts now devoid of raided rails, they rode into the haphazardly setup encampment.

A bevy of goats, no doubt from the deeply reduced flock now paddocked off tightly in a near corner of the field, were already being turned on spits by pages as knights invariably toasted each other's exaggerated martial prowess over wine, men-at-arms quaffing ale or beer stood about amiably swapping bawdy tales, and squires sweated to clean and polish the grit of the day's ride off their masters' armor.

She briefly considered shouting out her unexpected presence to her father's banners or trying to bolt past the half dozen red cloaks riding herd on her and Ser Rodrik to them. But her frantic desire to hear about Bran kept her quiet and docile; though, like the message, she expected it all to be just a Lannister lie to capture her silent acquiescence and submission. The folded parchment she had anxiously snatched from Ser Rodnay's hand at the start of the day on the Harrenhal Road had held the Old Lion's privy seal and barely any more information about Bran than the words that the petty knight had shouted to ensnare her.

Besides, the Westerlanders outnumbered her father's bannermen by at least three or four to one. She would not be the cause of an ignoble slaughter; the spark that started a war. Perhaps the Lannisters did not want one either. Perhaps. The ruffians could simply have killed her and Ser Rodrik; and none in Westeros would have been the wiser about their demise.

There had been more than just the initial set of four jackals in lion's clothing at the capture; two more red cloaks and both those damnable sellswords from the inn, all cleverly hidden. Five gold piece to each had been the betrayal price. When the pair of weasels had ridden off with their prize of dragons, Catelyn had silently beseeched the _Mother_ to make them choke on their ill-gotten bounty.

Soon enough, meandering between men and beasts and tents littering the field, she spied _him_ sitting stiffly alone and proud in a folding travel chair before the largest of the tents; sharpening a claw on a whetting stone. For a second she wondered if the dagger he held was of Valyrian steel; like the one sent to spill all her precious, grave hurt boy's blood. Perhaps the Lannisters did want war after all. Perhaps.

"My lord, Lady Stark arrives," she overheard some unseen servant ahead of them call out sharply.

Lord Tywin looked up. Across the slowly receding distance between them, his green eyes mercilessly latched on to her blue ones. The anger that had blazed and roiled like a living thing inside her throughout the day long journey across the Riverlands suddenly began to bank from the chill of new growing fear. Still, she refused to be the first to look away.

Not relinquishing his own fierce stare, the Old Lion stood. A tall, fit, still vigorous appearing man despite his years; closer to three score name days than fifty.

When more than close enough to him for her liking, Catelyn pulled on the reins to halt her mare. In five measured strides he was directly in front of her, taking the headstall of her mount, but smartly keeping his strong hands away from the horse's mouth and bit.

"Lady Stark. Ser Rodrik. I hope you were … undisturbed by my unorthodox … request?" his deep, powerful voice unhurriedly queried the lie.

"Tell me of my son. Tell me of Bran," she demanded; refusing to bestow him with his due title and name as she fought back the tears that threatened to lessen her in front of him.

"He lives ... And he has awoken … strong of heart and his wits intact," the Lannister answered deliberately.

Catelyn took a relieved, shuddering breath. Then, with as steady a voice as she had mustered the second before. "What of his back? His legs?"

A frowning curl of the Old Lion's lip gave way to a single word, "Crippled."

She nodded her understanding. That was not unexpected. Still, the cruelty of it crushed her heart, no matter the joy of Bran living. And she would not give Lannister the satisfaction of seeing her display weakness.

"Please, join me. Refresh yourselves after a long day in the saddle. Enjoy my hospitality," the Old Lion purred.

"As your prisoners you mean, my lord?" Ser Rodrik undauntedly spoke up in challenge.

"Hardly, Ser. As my cordial guests, of course. I would learn more over a pleasant dinner of the renowned Lady Catelyn; the future goodmother of my eldest grandson. And hear from Winterfell's Master-at-arms a rare, truthful rendering of my grandsons' progress with the sword. Then, on the morrow, you shall resume your journey back to Winterfell with whatever escort you wish to accompany you."

"We accept, Lord Tywin," she announced. What other choice did she have?

"You honor me," he responded with a nod of his close cropped, bald head and shifted over to her horse's flanks; offering a strong arm to assist her with dismounting while some groom in Lannister livery took over holding the bridle.

Grounded, but still clutching his arm tightly, she asked, "How did you hear of Bran?"

"The Grand Maester has ever been solicitous of me. And since I was sending a raven each day to King's Landing to update his Grace on my efforts to find Cersei; Maester Pycelle began returning the birds to Darry lest Lord Raymun's rookery run out of the creatures, accompanied with any tidbit he thought might interest me."

Catelyn nodded, accepting this explanation; it was well understood that Pycelle was the Lannister's creature. She was further relieved to realize that Ned too must already know of Bran's condition. Though Lord Tywin's account engendered even more questions in Catelyn, a few she might even dare ask him aloud later.

More importantly, however, his words also prodded her to the proper courtesies that helped shield a lady. "And you, Lord Tywin, have my and House Stark's deepest sympathies for Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime. May they rest in the _Seven's_ loving embrace."

"Yes … Thank you for your kindness, my lady." He placed his free hand over the one of hers still on his arm. For a moment, she thought Lord Tywin desired to say more, but a blink of those steely green eyes removed whatever softness may have been forming and returned him his naturally commanding, haughty mien.

The Lannnister then turned and lead her, as if they were a paired couple making a grand entrance to the Great Hall in Riverrun or Winterfell or Casterly Rock, into his pavilion; with Ser Rodrik trailing respectfully behind them as an honor guard. Within, she discovered cushioned chairs, as well as tables laden with drink and food, far more appetizing than sausage or pease or hardtack or moldy travel cheese, arrayed for a clearly anticipated gathering.

"Please," the Lannister said genially; at last removing his hand from atop hers in order to gesture in invitation towards the seats.

She, in turn, released his arm and began to take a step ... "Oh," Catelyn gasped lightly; for the Old Lion's paw had trapped her hand. Effortlessly he peeled off her riding glove; revealing her horridly scarred palm.

"Valyrian steel cuts deeply," he intoned menacingly.

"Oh!" she cried louder in shock at the dark implication.

"Unhand my lady," barked Ser Rodrik in his sharpest, most intimidating practice yard voice. Promptly stepping forward to menace the larger man; hand dropping to the sword never taken from him by their captors.

"Forgive my impudence," Tywin Lannister declared; instantly releasing his grip on her and taking a step back. He lazily waved away the guards whose attention was drawn by Ser Rodrik's cry.

Heart a flutter, Catelyn nevertheless decided to confront the beast straight on; whether or not he was grieving and she frightened. "How did you know of my wounds? And to search for us in the Riverlands, Lord Tywin?"

A slight smirk. "Varys is not alone in having little birds," he infuriatingly quipped.

So dear Petyr had been right in trying to hide her so deeply in the vile dregs of King's Landing. Just not accomplishing it as cleverly and secretly as he had thought he had.

"And whom did Littlefinger claim he lost his assassin's dagger to in his bet on my Jaime's failed tilt against Loras Tyrell? Was it my other son, Tyrion, perchance? Who would _never_ bet against his adored brother."

His little birds were good, but not as magical as Varys'. "No," she said bluntly; hiding her pleasure that he was not infallible after all.

"No?" Lord Tywin's eyes widened enough to reveal surprise; muttering, "Curious."

Catelyn regained more of her confidence seeing the Old Lion discomforted and at a loss.

"Then whom?" he asked dangerously.

"Did you, Lord Tywin, or any in your house try to kill my Bran?" She questioned back hard, the prey now hunting the predator.

Those green eyes studied her carefully again. She matched his gaze. Conceding, he gave her a respectful bow. "Apparently, you are not a lady to be cowed, Catelyn Stark. I admire that. … My word as Lord of Casterly Rock that neither I, nor any Lannister, commanded that villain who tried to murder your poor Bran and thus so sorely injured you."

Oath pronounced, Tywin Lannister looked at her inquiringly; head slightly tilted, and, once more, with an almost softening of his natural, harsh expression.

She stared back at the lord notorious for his cruelty, trying to pierce behind the veil. Not yet willing to accept _his_ "word."

Realizing she would not be rushed, his lips puckered into a small, tight smile. "Kindly sit, my lady. Drink the wine. Eat the bread. Accept sacred guest rights." And then he sat himself and picked up an already poured glass; sipping slowly from it as he peered inquisitively over the rim at her.

Catelyn stood stock still; weighing his " _truthy_ " words. Did guest rights mean anything to a man, a beast, like Tywin Lannister?

"My lady?" Ser Rodrik finally asked, as she had made no movement or sound one way or the other.

"There is nothing ill in accepting guest rights," she declared and moved to comply with her announcement. Of his vow of innocence, she said nothing. The ceremony complete, Catelyn from her seat returned to the taming the Old Lion and probed, "Does my lord of Lannister know who did command the deed be done?"

"Of a certainty? No. In Baelish's brothel, did your lord husband relay to you my belief in a conspiracy attempting to bring your house and mine to open blows?"

The mention of the establishment she had been hidden away in for two long weeks far more discomforted Catelyn for some reason than the many other secrets that Tywin Lannister had obviously learned. "He did avail me of this notion."

He nodded once. "I have for some time bent my mind to unravelling this conspiracy, Lady Catelyn, and divined the three most likely candidates."

Clearly, Tywin Lannister was as uninterested in specifically answering Catelyn's question as she was in addressing any of his.

The Old Lion raised a talon. "First, Lord Renly, whom even before the King's trip to Winterfell was already at work with Ser Loras Tyrell to bring his former squire's sister, Lady Margaery, to the Red Keep in hopes that Robert would fall in love with her and throw my Cersei aside. In a war between Ned Stark and his wife, the King would support his friend; for whom he holds actual affection."

Catelyn's mouth dropped open in shock at the equanimity with which Tywin Lannister suggested the possibility of treason against his daughter, the Queen, by the King's own brother.

Another claw was lifted. "Second, Lord Varys. I've long suspected the Eunuch never relinquished his loyalty to the Dragons. If one could follow the Spider's tangled web, I would not be surprised to see his hand behind Daenerys Targaryen recent marriage to the most powerful of the Dothraki khals. A Westeros where Kingdom is already set to war against Kingdom might not stand against a barbarian invasion."

Catelyn supposed the Master of Whisperers must be involved with a great many conspiracies; possibly some of them directed against the Iron Throne itself, if for no other reason than keeping Varys in his post. The Eunuch was a frightening enigma with seemingly dark powers at his command. But to go that far seemed mad?

"Any Westerosi knight is worth at least three of those savages," Ser Rodrik interrupted with derision. "They would not stand our charge," he said proudly.

"And as these nomads born in the saddle ride across your lands pillaging and worse, while you try to bring them to pitched battle, Ser, how many smallfolks' lives will it take to kill a single Dothraki? How many villages burned? How many harvests lost? Woman raped?" the Lannister answered cold as Winter.

"The realm would unite against such a threat. We are all Andals and worshippers of the _Seven_ ," Catelyn declared righteously.

The Old Lion's eyes narrowed contemptuously. "Never be surprised, Lady Catelyn, in war what any lord might be willing to do to win, or at least not lose, it," the beast said in a low, growling voice.

No, she supposed not, as the opening notes of " _The Rains of Castamere_ " suddenly flitted through her mind; as did a gruesome image of red cloaks coming at her like they once had at Princess Elia and her babes.

The snarl widened into a toothy, just as scary, smile. "To conclude," he declared, raising a third finger whilst raising his eyebrows knowingly. "My last candidate nearly died dueling to prevent your marriage, Lady Catelyn."

"P-Petyr?"

The smile widened further; as if the Old Lion wished to swallow her. "Never underestimate a lover scorned. Or a …"

"Hold your lying tongue, Lannister!" Ser Rodrik cried, coming out of his chair; hand again on the hilt of his blade.

A trio of red cloaks immediately made to enter the tent at the shout.

The Old Lion raised a hand to stop them, then continued in that same even, unperturbable voice, "Or a lordling's resentment at the station of his betters."

Cheeks a flame, she intoned carefully, "Ser Rodrik."

"My lady!" he answered back hotly; not willing to forgive the implied insult to her honor.

"Peace, Ser," she commanded him sternly; purposefully shifting her gaze lower to the seat behind him.

Slowly, he sat back down, but refused to take his hand off his sword. She nodded once to acknowledge his obedience. All the while her mind whirled to put together what pieces she knew about Lord Tywin and Littlefinger.

Ned had told her that the Lannister wished both Varys and Petyr dead; mayhap because of some possible blackmail against House Lannister. And that the offer had been made before the Queen and Ser Jaime's … disappearance. Thus it did not surprise her that Lord Tywin had chosen those two as potential sources behind this alleged conspiracy. Was the blackmail still relevant even after the twin's deaths? Or was the Old Lion simply protecting his house's good name if it did have to do with them? He was notorious about his dignity.

Yet … She suddenly noted those emerald orbs of the beast watching her intently as she sat there silently thinking; trying to unnerve her.

Yet … The Old Lion had known that she had seen Ned in Petyr's establishment, if only briefly. So he might well have guessed she already knew about how the Lannister wished the debt of the Iron Throne to be repaid him. But her knowing that he knew that she knew meant … her head spun at the circles of logic. So she returned to the armor of a lady's courtesies. "What other slanders do you intend to repeat, my lord?" Catelyn asked in her most pleasant tone.

Tywin Lannister snorted briefly in seeming amusement. "Without wishing to unduly alarm, Ser Rodrik, I believe only one of the two claims that Baelish is reputed to have more than once imprudently uttered in the Red Keep."

"And what would that be, Lord Tywin?"

"That he took the maidenheads of both Tully sisters."

Ser Rodrik's face burned; though he held his tongue and gripped his pommel till his knuckles turned snow white.

Catelyn smiled politely to cover the disgust she felt at the ridiculous accusation. "Petyr has ever been a good and kind friend to the Lady Lysa and myself. He has told me of the many woes my sister experienced over her long years in King's Landing. And of what little succor he could give her ... as a friend, only, my lord," she said with calm assurance.

"No doubt. When the Lady Lysa fled the Red Keep after Jon Arryn's death for the Eyrie, whom do you think she trusted to place her secret note accusing House Lannister of the Hand's death in the royal party's luggage bound for Winterfell?"

That made sennnn … how much did he know? The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. It was as if the Lannister had been in the broth … establishment's room with her and Petyr. And even in Winterfell with her and Ned and Maester Luwin.

"Was he a merely a good friend who would take such a blind risk for your sister? Or would someone need to be closer than a mere good friend to hazard such an action? Perhaps he was even a conspirator with her on the wording of the note?"

No, Petyr had been surprised when she revealed the existence of Lysa's letter to him.

"He is quite the clever lordling, your Littlefinger. Made custom master of Gulltown, strictly on his own merit, no doubt, at age twenty and three by Lord Arryn. Then brought to King's Landing and promoted to Master of Coin on the Small Council before his thirtieth name day. Negotiating and juggling millions of dragons of the Iron Throne's debt caused by Robert's excesses. And you have only Baelish's word on the nature of his relationship with your sister, don't you?"

"Who else could I ask?" fell out of her mouth at the torrent spilling over her.

"I am certain that Varys knows most, if not all, of the truth. But would he tell you, or anyone, unless it suited his needs? Servants, perhaps? Would they dare tell you the truth or only that which they thought you wanted to hear? That is if they are even still in the Red Keep and not back in the Vale."

"With Lysa ... Lysa would know," she whispered; her armor scored by the verbal assault.

"She would," Tywin Lannister concurred. "And just what were the specifics of her accusation in that secret language of yours? Poison, I suppose. But administered by whom? Cersei? Not Jaime though, not the Kingslayer's style. Most likely Tyrion, then. The Imp," he drawled with scorn.

"No. She did not say."

"Convenient," he sneered. "Now, as I have answered many of your questions, Lady Catelyn; it is only polite that you answer the one of mine."

She nodded dully in agreement.

"Whom did your Littlefinger lose his lord's ransom of a Valyrian dagger to, if it were not my son Tyrion?"

"Robert. The King. Petyr … Lord Baelish lost the dagger on a bet with his Grace."

"Devilishly clever. Indeed, he likely did." The tips of the long fingers of each hand tapped together in contemplation. "And as Robert would never injure a child of his dearest friend, Eddard Stark; suspicion falls on any in the royal party who might have the privilege to access the King's privy wardrobe and weapons. A party with more than a few Lannisters and my Westerlands' banners in it. Oh, well played, Littlefinger."

The Old Lion's thoughts had immediately followed the same path that Petyr's had in implicating the Lannisters. She had called him brother to Ned. Had she been wrong?

"Lady Catelyn, you are as honorable as your renowned and frustratingly stubborn husband, Lord Eddard. Thus, I see only one way that this cloud overhanging our two houses may be cleared up to your satisfaction; and thus to mine."

She drew herself back together. She would neither be bullied nor coddled. "I will not return to King's Landing with you, Lord Tywin. My lord husband has lain duties upon me."

"Yes, the mustering of his banners. The guarding of Moat Cailin." He shook his head in disappointment. "No, I have another place in mind for you to visit first before returning to Winterfell, my lady. And you may take all your lord father's bnners encamped outside as your loyal escort."

"Where might that be, Lord Tywin?" Catelyn asked

"A castle that suits House Tully's words," the Old Lion answered with a grin. "One as high as honor."


	12. Chapter 11

**[Author's Note:** This chapter is dedicated to the memory of my amazing mother, who passed away May 18th after ninety-five wondrous, full years on this Earth. While celebrating the journey of life she made and shared; her husband, children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren will forever miss her kind and generous spirit. We will carry her love in our hearts always. **]**

* * *

 **JOFFREY POV**

The endless wait chaffed at Joff's natural good humour something fierce. He could have ridden up Aegon's Hill in ten … no, nine … no, seven minutes; yes, seven minutes if cousin Lomas or the serjeant of his father's stables, what was that damned Reacher's name … not that it mattered, let him try that sweet new ebon and silver Dornish hunter.

Then, once in the Red Keep, the dash over the Outer Yard through the Tower Wall and across the Middle Bailey to the steps of the Royal Sept would be a gallop of mere seconds. Not that he had done a whit of riding the last two weeks, Joff thought glumly. Father's recent bout of attentiveness, initially cherished and now dreaded, saw to the absence of his lone escape.

And it was damnably hot in the midday sun too; standing stiffly to attention under the many layers of his princely garb at the front of the royal receiving line. The fine silks and velvets that Joff now wore no longer sported the joint Stag and Lion insignia Mother had insisted upon; only clothes emblazoned with pure Baratheon regalia alone were currently permitted in his wardrobe.

Within them, he could feel perspiration building up across his aching, tired shoulders. If the damned procession did not arrive soon, sweat would soon break out on his brow and start to dampen his golden hair. That would not happen. He must appear perfect for Mother's return; remembering her frequent, loving phrase of praise for him, " _My SevenHeavens sent angel_."

A slight movement caught his bored eye and he shifted his gaze to peer just past his still betrothed, who stood paired beside him. T'was the horrid direwolf, as always. No one desired his Dog's hideous presence to mar the beauty and sanctity of the coming Lying in State ceremony. Why would they? But none from the lowest lordling to his very father batted an eye at the flea bitten wolf's pesky presence at any and every court function.

Further, Joff failed to understand how the furry beast wasn't already passed out from the heat … or asleep from the tedium. At least "Lady," lying happily in the dust, reflected her mistress' dull, accommodating personality. And to think that his betrothed's constant toothy companion had once given him cause for worry … if only slightly.

Apparently taking the slight movement of his head as having granted her leave to speak to him, Sansa repeated one of her wearyingly common complaints, "I wished I had gotten to know the Queen as my goodmother. And, I dared hope as a second mother too."

" _She wasn't yours!_ " he wanted to thunder. " _She would never have been yours! Mother was mine!_ _You would never have known her as I knew her!_ " But, instead, bit down on his lip in a knightly effort at tempering his royal will.

"So kind to me she was. Taking such interest in what skills of ladyship I had been taught in Winterfell; ever so far from proper Southron lands and true noble manners. Such sweet suggestions to improve my deportment, her Grace gave me. But I could never have matched her; a paragon of beauty and queenly demeanor. Her moderate yet commanding words. The sweet condescension. The splendid, rich clothes. The magnificent jewels. The delicious perfumes. Her gorgeous golden hair so intricately arranged," Sansa babbled on and on glowingly.

"And never forget clever, my lady. She always said I will be a brilliant King. Brilliant," Joff blurted out; unable at last to restrain himself further and happy to echo Mother's wisdom.

"You will, my prince, you will" Sansa agreed cloyingly and then shyly reached out to take his sword hand; though he had frustratingly not swung a blade in a fortnight. The chatterbox had become far more emotional towards him than her disgustingly over effusive rgular self the last few days, as tensions had risen dangerously high between the Iron Throne and House Stark.

" _Not as stupid as Mother feared. Pretty enough too. So long as our children take more after me, she will suffice,_ " he thought smugly and bestowed a beaming smile as reward to her. Father, for whatever reason, could not remain angry long at the taciturn Northron Hand. Sansa would be wise to emulate her father a bit in that regard if she wished to continue in Joff's good graces; for with the crisis apparently passed, she still clung to him at every opportunity.

"Her Grace will be so proud of your kingship, looking down on you from her special place at the _Mother's_ feet. Helping to guide your glory and triumphs with her love."

Would she? Could she? He had not bothered to listen much those times when Septon Tomard or Septon Desmond or Septa Lelia had tried to speak with him about Mother and … and … the _Stranger_.

Something weir and discomforting that had lingered unwanted in his guts the last two months suddenly reached up to grab at his heart. He would truly never see her again. Be held by her. Be comforted. Be encouraged. Ever. These were only her bones being returned. But was she there already, ascended above, watching over him? Inspiring him to greatness. Then why did he still feel so very, very alone?

Father's new found interest in him had been pleasing at first …

The horns blew, announcing at last her arrival in the keep; and, Sansa squeezed his callused, still partially blistered hand in surprise at the noise. He hid a grimace and the desire to strike her for abusing his tender flesh. Thirteen days in a row Father had sparred the morning away with him; warhammer against warhammer. Or, " _Stag against Stag_ ," in his sire's most oft repeated words; along with oft shouted cries of, " _Hit harder, son," "Stop whimpering, I barely touched ya," and "Prove you're a Baratheon, boy!_ "

The only relief from the punishing onslaught coming whenever father took a moment to teach Tommen, who had also thankfully been drawn into this new daily madness, some stupid trick of swinging a big club; as if Baratheons were mere men-at-arms, or worse, smallfolk levies. But unlike Joff, his weakling brother got the luck of wearing an over padded gambeson for his bouts against a blow pulling Demon of the Trident; the useless little shit.

Then he felt the first wet trickle on his head; threatening to ruin his hair. He debated raising his Sansa free shield arm to wipe the sweat away, but did not; for fear the crowd would spy the tremble in his still exhaustion laden limb. Fucking stupid heavy warhammer! He would never be seen as weak, unmanned. By anyone. Ever. That was the most important lesson Mother had instilled in him; a Lion, a Prince, and then a King.

Sansa gasped in pleasure, distracting him again, as the first knights, clad in gold on Lannister crimson samite, the sun reflecting off their burnished, lion ornamented chest plates, came riding out of the Tower Wall's gate house. Her other hand shot out to grab his bruised and heavy bicep, squeezing in glee at the spectacle; forcing Joff to grind his teeth like his absent, annoying Uncle Stannis did, in order to keep from crying out.

After the score and one of Lannister House knights, a religious dirge issuing from an entourage of holy brothers preceded forty and nine marching septons out of the dark tunnel. A boring chant to match the dull brown robes they wore. The utter lack of pageantry put forth by the Faith made Joff wonder how the High Septon's dignity had allowed them to be clothed in something so utterly inappropriate for attending his Mother, their queen.

Next, led by Uncle Stafford and Cousin Daven, came two lines of Westerland lords and knights; all appropriately attired and fierce of demeanor. Grandfather would have had their hides if they dared appear other … and then Grandfather came into the light, alone.

"Lord Lannister looks a proper lion," Sansa murmured in awe. The Lord of Casterly Rock was the first to appear in full plate: every piece colored deep crimson and sporting intricate gold inlay, lion paw shaped rondels attached to his upper breast plate supported the long clothe of gold cape that flowed behind him, and only the absence of a helm gave hint that he was not riding to war.

"Yes," Joff grudgingly allowed. He noted with envy his Grandfather's perfectly erect bearing in the saddle despite the weight of steel – the calm, noble, and commanding visage – the keen, all seeing leonine eyes that swept over him and in an instant judged him lacking.

He now hated the hoary Lion with a passion, no matter that he was the closest of kin and that Mother had doted, wrongly, on his every word and thimble full praises. The casual indifference shown him on his few visits to Casterly Rock had by the Trident and at Darry turned to open slights and blatant contempt. Joff would never forgot; no, never.

His uncle, the Imp, also always treated him with the same disrespect; as if either of them knew how to act a proper Prince … a King. Now he realized that the dwarf must have inherited every vile, stunted trait of his sire. Leaving all that was great of House Lannister's blood to be granted to Mother … and, he supposed, Uncle Jaime too. They were twins after all.

Grandfather rode his chestnut stallion to the front of the receiving line, dismounted, and immediately knelt in proper submission before the King; like he would one day kneel humbly before a gleeful Joff.

"Arise, Lord Tywin, my goodfather; let us face this heart breaking task together," father nobly commanded and then offered the conceited old Lion a hand up.

A hand that the Lion politely accepted in order to take his place beside the King, in front of grinning Uncle Renly and the Hand; who, pleasingly to Joff, glared icily at Grandfather. More pleasing to Joff was the sight of the Stag physically looming over the imposing Lion. As one day he too would.

And then, as if all were watching mummers take the stage, the entire Middle Bailey quieted as twice seven Silent Sisters glided somberly into view; leading two simple mule drawn carts.

"How humble her Grace approaches the _Seven_ ," Sansa quietly gushed her approval.

Worse, the caskets carrying Mother and Uncle Jaime's bones were only plain pine boxes resting a top beds of hay.

"No, no, no," Joff murmured in hoarse fury.

A soft whimpering reached his ears.

This was wrong. This was blasphemy to her memory.

Behind him, he heard Myrcella's voice whispering, "Take my hand, Tommen."

She was the Queen. The mother of a King to be. His Mother. Not a crofter's daughter, a low born wench, or some useless spent old smallfolks. How dare Grandfather insult her this way! Where was the gilded golden sarcophagus? The Royal Wheelhouse pulled by mighty chargers to transport her above her lowly subjects? A crimson mist began to enfold him.

"Look, Tommen. Ser Barristan and the other Kingsguards. Don't they look handsome," Sansa cajoled his brother in a kind voice that sounded very far away.

And then …

* * *

"You look pale, my prince ... My prince? … Joff … are you well?"

He blinked; hearing words, but not understanding them. Where was he? Had the day grown dark?

"My … my prince?"

He turned his head toward the annoying voice. Sansa towered over him; a look of worry on her dull, pretty face. He realized he was on his knees before her. Fear, impotence, and confusion swept over him. Instantly he began scrambling to his feet to regain control; until a wave of dizziness hit him. He faltered, swooning.

From behind, a strong hand grasped him hard on one of his tortured biceps to keep him from tumbling over. "Steady, my Prince. The young lady has the right of it; your face is as white as a Kingsguard's cloak," declared a man's tough sounding voice. Then, a second, unseen hand settled on his hip and began guiding him to a bench a few steps away.

People made way for him. Joff recognized a few of the faces: Lord Harwin, cousin Lomas, Ser Tyler – the Comptroller, Lord Willem – the Chamberlain, Great Uncle Tybolt. Then he saw seven stars as light shining down through what might have been stained glass partially blinded him.

The room tilted back and forth again; but, at last, he realized where he was. More panic assailed him. He did not remember entering the Royal Sept. Had the Lying in State ceremony begun? He could not remember. Had he made a fool of himself? His memory was a blurry, unhelpful haze of crimson.

He choked back a whimper as those sturdy hands propelled him to sit. Then, a blonde framed face, quite like Uncle Jaime's, though splotched with a rainbow of colors, hovered before him. It took a moment to place … cousin Daven. "Drink this," his kin commanded; he recognized it as the voice of who had held him and his dignity up.

Joff accepted a silver flask. He swallowed. Brandy. It burned. Heat quickly grew in his belly and his cheeks; as a crowd embarrassingly developed even quicker about him. " _Please Mother, let the ceremony already be over,_ " he silently prayed.

From the front of the enclosing throng, ancient Pycelle opened his servile, arrogant mouth to explain with false sympathy, "The young Prince was overcome by the magnificence of the ceremony. Of a splendor befitting the Queen and her brother, Ser Jaime."

Relief filled him; his pray answered. Joff had not spoiled the rite. He was still her SevenHeavens sent angel. Not a mottled fool before the court.

"And the prince, such a devoted child to his mother," the disgusting eunuch smarmed in agreement.

"So like his uncle," the grubby coin lord agreed with a smirk, and then redirected his attention. "Here, Lady Sansa, come. Sit beside your royal betrothed." And the short lordling quickly cut to her side, laid his small hands upon her shoulder, and maneuvered the girl down onto the pew beside him.

Once more, Sansa reached out and squeezed his tender hand. Her overeager attention on a normal day was taxing; but now, when he might be viewed before others as weak, t'was simply intolerable.

"Are you feeling better, my Prince?" she oozed with lapdog-like concern.

He drew himself together in the sight of so many watching and offered her a gallant smile that did not reach his heart. "As the Grand Maester said, I was temporarily overcome by the … the will of the _Seven_ ," he announced; thinking his reply sounded properly devout and clever.

"Did they reveal themselves to you? … in a vision?" his might be Queen gasped with awe.

Those hovering about him unexpectedly tensed at the chattering question.

"Nnnnoooo," he slowly drawled. At his response, he saw disappointment or simply nothing appear in the many eyes focused on him. "But …" He continued, gaining their attention again. "I saw … I saw … my royal mother, the Queen."

"The Prince has been blessed with a vision!" Pycelle, the first to speak, ejaculated.

"A miracle!" Septa Lelia, Mother's Privy Septa, cried with joy.

"You _are_ blessed," Sansa agreed adoringly.

"Blessed! A miracle!" the insipid, always underfoot Septa Mordane echoed.

"Extraordinary," Varys concurred.

"The _Seven_ work wonders, my Prince," cousin Daven declared.

"They do," cousin Lomas agreed.

"Did her Grace speak to you, Prince Joffrey?" Littlefinger asked. "Perchance say who vilely murdered her?"

"No … I don't … no," Joff stuttered, beginning to wonder whether he had gone too far.

"Did Mother speak, Joff?" Myrcella asked quietly from behind him.

He swiveled his neck. He did not remember seeing her in the crowd before. Tommen was with her. The two held hands. His pathetic brother, as always, looked about to cry.

"Did she?" the pampered little brat repeated with trembling lips their sister's question.

"Mother said … she said …" Sansa squeezed his hand hard in what must have been sympathy or encouragement. "… said to me, 'Joffrey, my first born prince, obey your royal father as a … a proper son should, … become a … knight, look to the _Seven_ , and … and House Baratheon, through your own sons, shall reign a thousand years on the Iron Throne.'" Yes, he thought approvingly, that sounded a properly terse and humble vision.

While Sansa sighed deeply in wonder at the promised future, Myrcella and Tommen faces' both turned downcast in delightful disappointment at not being mentioned.

"Sage words from such a wise Queen," that lickspittle Pycelle crooned first, as always. Then a cacophony of voices all began speaking over top each other.

"Her Grace avails us of her wisdom from SevenHeavens."

"Only a thousand years. So unlike the Queen to limit herself."

"I saw him swoon in the middle of the ceremony, so powerful the vision came upon him."

"The Prince is blessed."

"The _Mother_ spoke through her Grace."

"Were there sweet angels flying about her golden hair?"

Until …

"What's all this ruckus?!" Father's commanding royal voice battered and bludgeoned both the din and the crowd about Joff away; opening passage for him, a dour looking Hand, Grandfather, Uncle Renly, and the Royal Sept's senior member, Septon Tommard.

"Your Grace, her Grace has sent a vision to Prince Joffrey," his father's Privy Septon, Desmond, announced; not sounding as sincere as he should in the presence of a _Seven_ sent miracle.

"What mischief are you up to, Joffrey?" father growled suspiciously at him.

Putting on his humblest, most devout face, Joff repeated in a tone of wonder the divinely inspired words Mother had gifted him and him alone.

"I saw him overcome, your Grace," Sansa fervently expostulated into the ensuing silence when he had finished speaking.

A chorus of assents immediately followed.

For her words, Joff thankfully squeezed his betrothed's hand while taking note of who spoke up in support of him and who did not.

"Yes … well, then," father murmured, his features befuddled in the face of a confirmed miracle. "We wouldn't want to gainsay Cersei and the _Seven_ , would we?" Doubt fell away to purpose. "Of course you shall become a knight. You are my son. A Baratheon," he declared proudly. "We can talk more about making you a squire tonight when we dine with your lord grandfather."

Joff's smile faltered. He had not thought about the need for him to squire first. He was a prince. What was the need?

"Now give the boy room to breath," the King commanded the noble crowd about Joff. "Go pay your respects to Cersei," and he jerked his hand back towards the statue of the _Mother_ ; under which rested Mother's casket. "Or the Kingslayer," whose remains lay beneath the _Warrior_.

The lords and knights dutifully drifted away.

"Did you hear father?" Sansa near squealed at the frowning Hand. "We are to have many sons."

"It is to be hoped, Sansa," the dour Northron said a tad too skeptically.

"Come on, Ned. Renly. Tywin. The Sept grows stuffy. I need fresh air," Father complained and started walking towards a door.

The Hand and Uncle Renly promptly followed, but Grandfather first stepped up to Joff and placed a heavy paw on the junction of his shoulder and neck; forcing him to look up at the old Lion.

A small smile unfurled beneath fierce green eyes on that arrogant, bearded face. Then, in a voice loud enough for all the Sept to hear, the Lord of Casterly Rock announced, "Let word of this miracle spread through all the Seven Kingdoms, Prince Joffrey. For our righteous departed Queen, your royal mother, eternally watches over House Baratheon. Now. And Always."

* * *

"Did you know anything about the dagger turning up missing in Winterfell, Joffrey?" Grandfather softly queried; the calm as silk voice disguising the steel claws that coerced answers from his prey.

The direct question surprised him. But, thankfully, this was not the first time he had been asked about that cursed blade; else, Joff might have felt his dinner rise up the back of his throat to betray him. "No. My Dog always sees to my arms and he's never given me cause for complaint _there_ ," he emphasized haughtily, cleverly distracting the room towards the many shortcomings of his Shield.

When father had commanded his attendance several afternoon's past, Joff had merely dreaded it was for want of a second go round between them with warhammers. Instead, he had found it was in response to a slew of dangerous revelations come from a little bird's whisper about a chance meeting on the Kingsroad between Grandfather and a startlingly unexpected Winterfell bound Lady Stark.

For more than a day father had been in rare high dudgeon, even for him. With Eddard Stark's position as Hand, and therefore Joff's betrothal to Sansa, teetering on the edge of dismissal an disgrace. Neither outcome of which would have barely elicited a yawn from him; except for the particular circumstances involved in having brought the Wolf by marriage south. What idiotic, useless fool could possibly have failed at killing an unconscious, crippled boy?

He had near sweat through his thick quilted doublet in worry as the King raged about Ned's lack of honesty to him, complained of possible Lannister duplicity, lamented loudly that such an ignoble attack had been made with his very own blade, and periodically questioned Joff about his memories of their stay in the North. Luckily, Bran's wolf had viciously ripped out the gullet of the utterly inept cutthroat. And dead men told no tales.

"The Hound is insolent," Ser Adrian, his mother's steward and a distant Lannet cousin, sneered in agreement with him.

"He was questioned. We were _all_ questioned," Great Uncle Tybolt, who was Mother's Chamberlain and thus had gone to Winterfell too, interjected discontentedly.

The Westerlanders in the room - Ser Jason Serret the Knight Harbinger, Ser Brynden Ridley the Keeper of the Royal Wardrobe, Ser Tywin Estren the King's Almoner, and Esquires of the Body Ser Galbert Yew and Ser Vayard Hamell - who had also all made the journey, nodded or murmured their unhappy agreement to having been interrogated while in the uncomfortable presence of mute Ser Ilyn.

That soft, threatening voice commanded the room's attention again. "Only a fool would have given this brigand your blade, your Grace. Let alone one of Valyrian steel. As I explained before, some nefarious scheme is a foot to place the Lion and the Wolf at each other's throats."

Joff nodded at the convenient explanation; though, a part of him wanted to bristle at having been unknowingly labelled a fool. It had not been his fault that for once Bloated Boros had actually done his duty and unbidden patrolled the royal apartments in Winterfell's Guest Keep. Forcing him to run with the first dagger that had come to hand lest he be seen in mid-purloin.

Father put down his goblet of wine to say grumpily, "Ned has his doubts."

"Still? After Cersei and Jaime? Your Grace does not hear _me_ accusing House Stark of their murders."

Now the rest of the court's Westerlanders - Lord Mors Buxton the Keeper of the Privy Door, Ser Tygett Farman the Keeper of the Garter, Ser Geremy Yarwyck the Master of the King's Great Wardrobe, and even the Kingsguard on duty, Ser Preston - who had all been invited to the private dinner thrown in honor of the Lord of Casterly Rock arrival, joined in the murmuring too. Great Uncle Stafford and cousin Daven, also invited as was proper for Lannisters of Casterly Rock – if only the second rank, added their voices too in support of their liege and head of house.

"After the assassin miss struck, there was ample time for a party to ride to White Harbor and take boat to the mouth of the Trident," Ser Kevan Wendwater, the King's Cupbearer on duty that night and besides the two Baratheons the only non-Westerlander present, suggested coyly.

Thunder instantly rumbled across father's face. The eldest of the three Wendwater brothers at court might be the king's closest companion, but challenging the Stag's oldest and dearest friend without tacit consent was stupidly rash regardless it was done to win possible favor with House Lannister.

But it was his Grandfather who struck the table a powerful, reverberating blow first. "No. That is nonsense and a slur on Lord Stark's honor, Ser. Worse, it plays to the divisions my true enemies' try to sow."

"True, too true, Tywin," father concurred sternly, an irascible Baratheon eye on Ser Kevan as he said it. Another draught of wine then passed his lips before he continued with evident displeasure. "T'was wise of you to convince Lady Catelyn to seek out her sister. Such a repulsive accusation demands full explanation. Not more secret notes snuck about in the middle of the night by hidden spies. Bah!"

"Aunt" Lysa was _not_ in good odor. She had fled King's Landing with her wretched milk breathed brat as soon as father's thoughts had turned North. And, she had refused his command to return from the Vale. Worst, it was now known she had privately accused Mother's family, perhaps Mother herself, of murdering father's own foster father, the last Hand, ancient Jon Arryn.

"These are trying times, your Grace. Hopefully your sorrow and burden will be eased by the Funeral in Baelor's Great Sept and the subsequent Funerary Tourney in Queen Cersei's honor."

An uncomfortable silence settled on the room as father hid behind his goblet. A silence that, eventually, Great Uncle Tybolt took upon himself to end for his goodbrother. "Tywin, the Small Council is concerned that the state of the Treasury might not support the costs associated with such impressive … undertakings."

Grandfather carefully set down his own wine glass. "Nothing has been started?" the Old Lion husked, glaring intently at the Stag.

A pause. "Not yet, Tywin," father hedged rather sheepishly. "Ned wished to consult with you and Littlefinger first. The Small Council did not want to, ahhhh, misjudge your intent or generosity."

The stiff neck somehow bowed graciously. "I perfectly understand, your Grace. And I apologize for the misunderstanding I created," he announced in a tone that brooked no dispute as to where the failure truly lay. "Casterly Rock shall pay _all_ the costs to see proper respects rendered my Cersei and Jaime." A small smile, "though I'd appreciate the Hand keeping rein on the Master of Coin's most rapacious tendencies when Baelish delivers the bill."

For whatever reason the room, even father, laughed knowingly at the last bit clearly directed with proper leonine scorn at the money grubbing mockingbird.

"Kevan, Mors, Brynden, be sure the Hand hears of it in the morning. The memory of my beloved Queen deserves respect," father spoke authoritatively.

"To Queen Cersei," cousin Daven cried out.

"To Queen Cersei," all the room shouted; except Joff, who could only choke out "Mother."

Cups were raised, then lowered. Immediately servants scurried about to refill those which had been emptied. Joff held his aloft along with the others for he found the many troubling topics discussed after the end of dinner had created a powerful thirst in him. And thankfully father, unlike Mother, never tried to limit the amount of wine he imbibed.

Then, once more, the all-seeing green eyes of the Old Lion pierced into Joff. Followed by a proud turn of the head towards the King and, "Your Grace, we must not make a liar out of your sainted Queen, should we?"

"Cersei? Err … how so, Tywin?" Father asked curiously.

"Your fine son, Joffrey, was born a prince. But the Seven have decreed through my blessed daughter that he must become a knight; which takes years of hard work, devotion to the Faith, and the swearing of fearsome oaths. Does it not?"

Father snorted in partial amusement, "It does. Jon Arryn worked me and Ned and the others to the bone in the Vale; he did." Memories clearly flickered in his blue Baratheon eyes; a small smile appearing on his thickly bearded face. Then he turned his head to gaze at Joff. "We've made a good start this last fortnight, haven't we boy?"

Joff's chest puffed out at the rare words of praise, and not anger, from his sire. Hope sprung in his chest. His mind fumbled for the pleasing response "I hope so, father. You have taught me much. And I have the bruises to prove it," he replied, the last bit purposefully accompanied by a short, rueful laugh and a subtle waggling of his sword arm.

And the room rightly chuckled where he had led them; except for Grandfather, damn him.

"Have you thought of the lord under whose guidance Joffrey might foster as a squire?"

Wait … what?

"Foster?" Father echoed the word with surprise. "If Joff … Cersei would have …" He cleared his throat before continuing. "I thought Joffrey could squire for Ser Barristan."

The Old Lion nodded his head in agreement as the others in the room murmured their approval of the idea. But then his lips suggested a different sentiment, "A noble and proper, if not exactly bold, choice, your Grace."

The cup again went down, father hunched up to lean over the table towards Grandfather, and his face squinted to show the start of a rising temper. The Stag did not take well to gainsayers. "How so, Tywin."

"You yourself were fostered away from Storm's End with Lord Arryn, among other high born sons of the Seven Kingdoms. Making lifelong friendships with the likes of young Ned Stark on the Eyrie's sparring grounds. Learning chivalry and lordship at the foot of our great Warden of the East." Grandfather next spread his arms to seemingly encompass the whole of father's privy dinner hall in Maegor's … and beyond. "The benefits of your fostering thunder resoundingly for themselves … _your Grace_."

The hand left the cup utterly in order to stroke his full beard in evident thought. "Aye. Not a bad idea, Tywin. I could not ask for a better man than Ned for Joffrey to squire for," he enthused.

That would not be so terrible, Joff thought a tad gloomily.

However, Grandfather distinctly cleared his own throat in evident disapproval.

"What?" the Stag growled, unhappy for another coming contradiction of his royal will.

"The Hand has his hands full ably assisting the Iron Throne. The work comes with the title," the Old Lion declared knowingly. "I fear Lord Stark lacks the time to properly oversee Joffrey's training. And some at court, not appreciating your friend's deep honor, might jealously whisper that Lord Stark was soft training his future goodson and King in order to curry his favor."

"Not within reach of my warhammer they wouldn't," father vowed.

"Besides, Joffrey deserves the chance to go somewhere he can freely grow his horns into a proper Stag. To earn the respect of one of your kingdoms in his own right, as you did with Jon Arryn and the Vale. And not be perpetually coddled by bootlickers and toadies because he was born a Baratheon prince."

Joff did not understand what game his Grandfather was playing, but he feared where it might be leading; so he spoke up to prevent it. "As your grandson, my lord Grandfather, I see no need to assure the Westerlands support by extending my ties to those under your guidance at Casterly Rock, as enjoyable and profitable as I would find it. Perhaps another Kingdom might be more advantageous" he oozed with wisdom, desperately attempting to avoid the obvious trap being laid for him. Grandfather hated him; by some eldritch means realizing that Joff would humble him once he became king.

"I quite agree, grandson. I had no intention of suggesting myself or Casterly Rock." A brief, arrogant smile followed those words. "A different kingdom would be best." An amused snort, "Though with the bits of Lannister blood flowing in your veins, I dare say that Dorne is out; much that you might find the Red Viper's tutelage … interesting."

The King's Refectory chortled knowingly at the horrifying jape as Joff hid his shiver of relief at even Grandfather not being so callous as to deliver him to the mercies of the notorious Martell.

"I won't have that overgrown turnip Mace making a Rose instead of a Stag out of my son," father commanded sternly. A dark chuckle followed. "Much as it would twist Stannis into knots."

"If not Highgarden, the Reach still offers one intriguing possibility, your Grace."

"A Reacher? Who would that be?"

Yes, who? A new tremor of dread ran through Joff; for his grandfather was clearly both clever and wicked.

"Who best to teach the young Stag than the only warlord who ever bettered the Crowned Stag on the battlefield?" the Old Lion's silky voice asked seductively.

No, not him. He had heard the story. And others as well. That lord was reputed a coarse butcher. Father could not possible agree to it. Mother never would have.

Joff appallingly saw a gleam come to father's blue eyes. The big head began to nod, slowly at first; then, more confidently. "By the _Warrior_ , that's not a damned bad suggestion, Tywin. Not bad by half." Father turned to look directly at Joff. "And no chance of him going soft on you boy. Pycelle will send him a raven on the morrow commanding his appearance at Cersei's funeral. He won't refuse this honor," he announced with a growing smile. "Course we will send some likely lads along with you if Horn Hill happens to lack suitable companions for you to squire with. What do you think, Joffrey?"

Wanting to cry out in frustration and rage as the jaws of Grandfather's trap snapped shut on him, Joff could only spit out the name "Randyll Tarly" like an epithet.


End file.
